


Stars Like Angels Fall

by ariaadagio



Series: Gravity [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Angst and Fluff, Basiphobia, Blood and Gore, Case Fic, Chloe KNOWS, Chloe needs a hug, Competence Kink, Domestic schmoop, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hugs for everybody, Humor, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lucifer Bingo 2019, Lucifer Needs a Hug, Lucifer acts his age, Lucifer is adopted by a cat, Lucifer is triggered, Lucifer learns to use his words, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Readable standalone, Romance, Sexual Content, Skydiving, Teamwork, Urban Fantasy, Wingfic, bed sharing, but not too schmoopy, new relationship awkwardness, some comic influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio
Summary: “Where do I begin?  With the grandest fall in the history of time?”  When Lucifer and Chloe’s latest investigation points toward skydiving shenanigans, Lucifer must grapple with his fear of falling.  Meanwhile, in the wake of recent trauma and Chloe’s altered worldview, Chloe and Lucifer explore their budding relationship.  [Deckerstar.  Post-Castaway but readable standalone.] [COMPLETE]





	1. Give Your Heart a Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiroMyStory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiroMyStory/gifts).



> Hello, all! I'm back again!
> 
> This narrative serves as a sequel to Castaway, but I wrote it specifically to be readable standalone. If crushing angst, endless cliffhangers, and serious flirtations with death in novel form aren't your jam, by all means, start here with Stars Fall, and you should be just dandy. All you really need to know is: Chloe knows Lucifer is the Devil. Super bad and angsty things have happened, but everything is fine, now. Chloe and Lucifer have managed to hash out their biggest differences and are giving this whole relationship thing a whirl. Lucifer and Maze's friendship is on the mend. Same with Maze and Chloe. And life goes on.
> 
> This story is a response to the Lucifer Bingo prompts: Uriel, scars, cross to bear, and epiphany. Chapter 1 title credit goes to Demi Lovato.
> 
> Thank you so much to my beta readers, [Pellaaearien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pellaaearien), [Wollfgang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wollfgang), and [Tarysande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande). Thank you additionally to Wollfgang, who created the beautiful banner I'm using on Tumblr and Twitter, and at the end of this story. 
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this story. Feedback is welcomed and encouraged. Profuse thanks to anyone who takes the time to leave me some, whether that be in the form of comments or kudos :)

Chloe's first day back after being kidnapped with Lucifer to Canada isn't her worst. Despite starvation, despite exhaustion, despite literal death by gunshot. Divine intervention in the form of Lucifer's feather assured that she isn't nursing any lingering injuries, and she's since had ample opportunity to catch up on calories and sleep.

The body that acting-Lieutenant McDowell directed her to in the morning turned out to be the victim of an accidental shooting. An elderly man suffering dementia had somehow gotten into his son's gun safe, and the results had been fatal. Tragic. But not a murder.

Still, instead of performing his usual disappearing act after Chloe makes the determination that the death is not a homicide, Lucifer sticks around. He even offers to help her with some of the following paperwork, an overture she's too grateful for to question until she notices he's listed cause of death as "brain past use-by date." And the section asking for a rough sketch of the crime scene includes a prone stick figure with a lolling tongue and Xs for eyes, along with copious whorls of red ink surrounding the neck, where the victim shot himself.

"That's for all the blood," Lucifer explains proudly, gesturing at the whorls.

"Lucifer," she says, giving him a look.

He meets her gaze with raised eyebrows. "Yes, Detective?"

"That's not how to fill that one out."

"Oh?"

"I …." She tiredly rubs the bridge of her nose. "Never mind."

"Never mind?"

She gestures at her watch. "Shift's over. I'll just fix it tomorrow."

"Detective, I am not a child," he says primly, looking stung. "I'm quite happy to fix it myself if you'll explain how you prefer it done." And then he adds in a smaller voice, "My intention wasn't to add to your workload."

Which … Devil, she reminds herself. Actual, honest-to-literal-God fallen-angel Devil. Devil who, as of a decade ago, still lived in Hell. She wonders how many times over the past few years she's misinterpreted "I'm not human and have no clue about human things" for "I'm making fun of you." Too many, probably.

"For cause of death," Chloe explains, gesturing at the form, "you need to list the most immediately applicable cause, which, in this case, is blood loss via gunshot. And for the sketch of the scene, they just wanna know the relative positioning of everything. I usually write 'body' or 'knife' or whatever instead of drawing anything graphic."

"Ah." He nods. "Right, then."

"And you can fix it, if you want, but—"

"I will, Detective."

"Great," she says, pushing back her chair and scooping up her purse. "But right now, I'm tired, and I wanna go home."

"Yes, of course," he says, standing as well. He glances at his watch, eyebrows creeping upward. "This  _has_  been a long day for you, hasn't it?"

"No kidding," she says, stretching with a groan. "I'm  _dying_."

"Only figuratively, this time, I hope."

She laughs. The soft vanilla sandalwood scent of him wafts closer as he glides around her desk, looming into her space, and she resists the urge to lean back into his arms. To kiss him. Not here. Not in public. She does permit herself to look up at him and smile, though. He beams back at her — an expression that brightens his eyes and softens his chiseled features.

A warmth stirs in her gut, and she snaps her gaze away, clearing her throat. "Let's go, yeah?"

They head to the elevator in comfortable silence, his hand resting gently at the small of her back.

* * *

She frowns as they step through the trundling doors into the parking garage. The stuffy air smells of exhaust and oil and mechanical things. His Corvette isn't parked in its usual spot on the ramp to the second level.

"Where's your car?" she says.

"I didn't bring it."

"You didn't … oh." He flew today. " _Oh_." He  _flew_. She shakes her head. Of course, he flew. The news story of him making slag out of the cuffs over the Pacific Ocean that morning had barely preceded his entrance into the precinct. He flew, yet she still finds herself stupidly asking, "Did you need a ride?"

His eyes glint with humor.

"Of course, you don't," she rushes to say, an awkward laugh falling from her lips. "Are you …?" She clears her throat, clutching her purse hard enough to turn her knuckles white. "Will you …?" Another throat clear. "Did you wanna come home with me? More quality time?"

"Is that what you desire?" he asks slowly. "Quality time?"

A black-and-white rumbles past them, blowing hot exhaust at her calves, and she steps to the side of the concrete aisle, more out of the way. Lucifer follows suit with a single long stride.

"I'm asking what  _you_  desire," she counters, turning to face him. She leans her hip against the trunk of a vacant cruiser. "It's just you stuck around and helped with paperwork — which you  _never_  do — and I thought, maybe, it's because you wanted to hang out after work, and is that something we do, now? Go home together after work?" She coughs as heat creeps across her face. "I mean, now that we're a couple? Because, I mean …." She has no idea what she means.

He regards her like she's grown his fabled horns. "You've the child today, yes?"

"Well, yeah." She shrugs. "But that doesn't mean you're not welcome to join us."

"It doesn't?"

"Why would it?" Chloe says, boggling. "Trixie loves you almost as much as I do."

The word love makes the skin around his left eye twitch. He looks away and takes a short breath. "I'd assumed that family time with your daughter wasn't for me," he says, peering at the pavement somewhere beyond her left foot.

"You  _are_ family," Chloe replies. "Of course, it's for you. If you want it to be, I mean."

He doesn't reply.

She rests her palms and splayed fingers on either side of his sternum. "Lucifer? Do you want it to be for you?"

"I …." His downward gaze shifts from the pavement to her hands and back to the pavement, like he's not sure what to do. How much "feeling" he can safely admit to and still be the Devil. "I stayed for the noise," he admits. "Not because I'd any particular designs on your time after work."

"What noise?" she says, frowning.

He sighs. "My penthouse is dreadfully quiet during the day, and I needed not to hear my own thoughts today."

Her heart constricts as she thinks of him foundered in the mud, lifeless and cold, crushed by his own guilt. Guilt over having killed. Uriel. Pier—Cain. Pushing closer, she wraps her arms around Lucifer's waist and presses her ear against his chest. His very warm, very not-dying chest. His arms snake around her in return as if by reflex.

She inhales, relishing the scent of him. "I swear, it does get better."

"And I swear I believe you," he replies, his lips forming a troubled, grim line, "but today it's … not."

Another vehicle rumbles down the aisle, this time an unmarked car. Ed Myers, she thinks, glimpsing the driver through the dirty windshield. One of the detectives on Vice. He doesn't wave. But at least, he doesn't glare at them, either. She's blocked from plain view by Lucifer's taller, broader body. Maybe Ed didn't even see? At this point, Chloe can't care.

Either her relationship with Lucifer will be a shitstorm at work or it won't. She already filled out the relevant "office romance despite better judgment" form and submitted it to McDowell. Aside from that and from being professional while she's actually on the clock, what else can she do?

"Trixie is noisy, you know," she murmurs against his lapel.

"She is, indeed."

"In fact, I think the plan tonight is to watch  _Frozen_."

He scoffs. "Hasn't she bloody seen that one enough, yet?"

"Children tend to fixate."

"Yes, well, they've limited mental capacity to fill, I suppose," he says with a leonine shrug.

"So—" She bites her lip. "—did you wanna come over?"

"For how long?"

"An hour. Overnight. I don't care." Her stomach flip-flops. "I mean, I care, but—"

"Yes."

She leans back to peer up at him. "Yeah?"

"I would enjoy—" His arms tighten around her. "—that is, if you'll have me, I would …. I mean, I've no energy for hosting at Lux tonight, anyway, and you're—" He gives her a long, searching look. "—fortifying."

She's  _fortifying_. Her chest tightens.

"Lucifer," she says softly, "consider this my open invitation. I'll 'have you' whenever you want to be had. Okay? I'd have keyed you already but you … uh … don't seem to need one."

A smile ghosts across his face. "Locks tend not to deny me. Not mundane ones, anyway."

"Yeah, I noticed that part," she replies with a wry, answering grin. "Do you like zap them or something?"

"Things simply like to open up to me," he says enigmatically, the words rich and smooth like aged bourbon. He glances at her. "And likewise, by the way."

"Likewise?"

"You've an open invitation."

Her grin widens. "So, I guess we are, then. A couple that hangs out after work, I mean."

"Yes." He kisses the crown of her head. "Yes, I suppose we are."

* * *

Trixie bounces into the backseat of the car like she has mini jetpacks attached to her feet. "Lucifer!" she exclaims as she flings her backpack into the footwell behind the driver's seat.

Lucifer nods to the rearview mirror. "Hello, child."

"You're coming home with us?"

"I …." He directs a doubtful look toward Chloe. "Yes?"

"COOL!" Trixie shouts, so excited she kicks Lucifer's seat.

Chloe grins as he flinches forward, his eyes bugging out wide before he schools his expression into an appropriately miffed glare.  _I told you so_ , she can't help but mouth at him. With a sniff, and an awkward shift in his seat, he looks away. Trixie's seatbelt clicks, and Chloe pulls the cruiser back into traffic.

"Lucifer, how old are you?" Trixie muses as they enter the highway.

His eyebrows knit. "I've no idea. Why?"

"Wikipedia says the oldest person to ever live was 122."

"Well," he says with an amused snort, "I'm quite a lot older than that."

"But you don't know your actual birthday?"

"Child, days weren't even a concept at the time of my—" He pauses, thinking. "Well, I suppose the word birth is accurate in a broad sense."

"Oh." Trixie squirms in her seat as Chloe settles the cruiser into the slow lane behind a rusty pickup.

Lucifer directs a bored look at the pickup's Oregon license plate, and then turns to Chloe. His gaze, one perfectly arched, judging eyebrow in sharp relief, dips to her speedometer before coming to rest on her face.

"No," she says.

"Did I speak a word, darling?"

"Your eyes are loud."

A guffaw pops loose from his lips. His eyes are twinkling when he says, "Yes, yes, I know. You and your  _rules_."

"You  _like_  my rules," she counters, grinning.

"They're tolerable."

She sighs theatrically. "What sacrifices we make."

His lip twitches like he wants to smile. His gaze drifts to the passing traffic.

"Lucifer, were you born more than a googolplex years ago?" Trixie continues, oblivious.

"Perhaps," Lucifer says slowly, frowning, and Chloe takes a moment to boggle over that. That it's feasible enough for him to be so ancient that he says,  _perhaps_ , in a considering, serious tone. Wow.

Trixie adds, "Anita says the biggest number is a googolplex."

"There is no 'biggest' number," Lucifer replies, placing the word biggest in graceful air quotes. "Numbers are infinite." He glances at Chloe. "I say, human education is frightfully lacking."

"Lucifer, she's  _nine_ ," Chloe says, sniggering.

"How is  _that_  an excuse?"

"What's infinite mean?" Trixie pipes in.

"See?" says Lucifer. "She bloody makes my point  _for_ me."

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Chloe glances at Trixie in the rearview mirror. "Infinite means something keeps going forever."

"Like the bunny?" says Trixie.

Chloe nods. "Yeah, exactly."

Lucifer gives Chloe a sidelong, disapproving look. "I'm quite certain rabbits don't do anything in notable quantities besides copulate."

"Not real ones," Chloe says, braking as a motorcycle blasts by on her left. "The Energizer bunny? Keeps going and going and …."

"Like Lucifer, too?" Trixie asks.

Lucifer arches that eyebrow again. "I suppose."

"Does that mean you guys're having a winter-spring romance?"

Chloe almost chokes. "Baby, where on earth did you hear—"

"Anita's dad is having one with the yoga instructor."

"My, my," Lucifer says with an impressed-looking smirk. "I withdraw my complaints about her education."

"Anita's mom says they never work out."

Chloe clears her throat. "Well, I think it's safe to say—"

"Child, as you have surmised, I don't age," Lucifer interjects, the words like liquid silk. "I'm not in my spring, or my summer, or my fall, or my winter. I simply am." Chloe tries not to think too hard about that. "So, the comparison doesn't apply, regardless."

Trixie regards them intently for a moment before nodding. "Good."

Lucifer cranes his neck to peer at her. "Good?"

"I like when Mommy's happy."

His only reply is a slow, reptilian blink, and a soft, barely audible, "Oh," like all the air is gone from him. He turns around to face the road, though the truck with the Oregon plates seems of no interest to him anymore. His fingers flex against his thighs.

Which isn't quite the reaction Chloe would have expected.

"Are you okay?" she mutters, too softly for Trixie to hear.

He swallows. Licks his lips like he's nervous. "Might we stop for groceries on the way home?"

She frowns. "Groceries?"

"Yes," he says. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes oozes across his face. "Yes, groceries. Comestibles. Foodstuffs."

"But I've got plenty—" The desperate look he gives her halts her protests. "O … kay. Groceries, it is."

She takes the next exit and turns onto the road that leads to Ralph's.

* * *

The bustling supermarket is jam-packed with people stopping off on their way home from work — precisely why Chloe hates grocery shopping right after her shift. No hand baskets remain in the receptacle by the front sliding doors, leaving her and Lucifer to wrestle for possession of a cart. Of course, the only cart left in the bay outside has locked wheels, a situation probably caused by a vagrant attempting to leave the parking lot with it. Great.

She gives the cart a shove. The stuck wheels drag against the pavement, squawking, squealing, and she's only granted a few inches of forward movement for her trouble.

Lucifer absently slips between her and the handlebar, and she steps aside.

He glides forward like the cart weighs a pittance, despite the squawking and squealing, despite Trixie hanging off the front like a monkey. Even better, the crowd parts for him like a wave cracks apart on a giant rock.

She gapes a little but quickly tamps her expression. O … kay, then.

Devil, she reminds herself, shaking her head. More powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap tall buildings in a single—

"You're smiling," he says.

She shrugs as they head into the produce section. "Just … still in the 'Holy cow!' stage of wrapping my head around this stuff."

"What stuff?" Trixie interjects.

"Nothing," Chloe says. Her smile tugs harder at the corners of her mouth.

For a moment, Lucifer tilts his head, peering at her as if to say,  _All I bloody did was push the cart. What precisely is so "Holy cow!" about_ that _?_ But he doesn't ask aloud. His gaze softens a little as he catalogues her features. Then, with another graceful step, cart squawking and squealing the whole way, he turns his attention forward, seeming to file his curiosity away.

"So, what is it you desire for dinner?" Lucifer says, almost a hum as he peruses the cabbages with arching, graceful fingers. Among the horde of bedraggled, bleary-eyed shoppers, his sleek what-must-be-a-$10,000 suit makes him stick out like a diamond in a coal mine.

"I'm happy with anything. Really."

"Surely, you've  _some_ craving?" he prods, looking up. "Some niggling little want?"

A hissing sound fills the air as tiny hoses spray the vegetables with a fine mist. A man scooping green beans into a plastic baggie pauses. His eyes rove Lucifer head to toe. He swallows. " _I_  want—"

"I'm not bloody talking to you," Lucifer grouses, bristling as he directs a withering glare in the man's direction.

The man blushes, deflates, and turns away.

Lucifer shifts on his feet, grumbling something about wishing for an "off button."

"I really don't have any cravings right now," Chloe continues, ignoring his griping. She's been stuffing her face since before Montreal, and even the prospect of Lucifer's cooking doesn't excite her much at this point. She had a huge sandwich for lunch. And fries. And a little brownie to polish it off. His treat. He fed her more than enough already. "Is that why you wanted to stop? To get stuff to make dinner?"

"Yes," he admits.

"You really don't have to do that," she assures him. "I'm positive we can rustle up something at home. Right, Trix?"

Trixie scrunches up her face and shrugs.

Lucifer's gaze wanders slowly between Trixie and Chloe and back to Trixie, his eyes narrowing with unknown calculations as the moments stretch. His fingers tighten around the cart's handlebar. A perplexed little frown creases his expression.

Chloe touches his shoulder. His deltoid is a solid, tense block of muscle. "Lucifer?"

"I need to make dinner for you," he intones.

"You really don't have to."

"But I need to."

"Why?"

The answer to her question doesn't arrive. He stands like a marble statue, staring with troubled eyes into the space somewhere beyond the potatoes.

"O … kay," she says, holding up her hands in surrender.

"I desire it," he adds through clenched teeth.

She nods. "Okay. If you really want. Go for it. Sorry."

He raises his eyebrows as he looks at her. "Surely, there's something I could make you that would entice you?"

"Cake!" Trixie chirps.

"No," Chloe says in a warning tone before Lucifer can make any promises. "Dinner food only, Trix."

"Macaroni and cheese?"

Lucifer smiles. "Ah, a guilty pleasure if ever there was one. Of course, I approve, child." He leaves the cabbages behind, drifting toward the jalapeños, instead. "I'll make you the most  _divine_  macaroni and cheese you've ever tasted."

"Macaroni and cheese doesn't have green stuff in it," Trixie says, brow wrinkling as he bags two of the oblong-shaped peppers.

"You won't be saying that by the end of tonight."

Chloe bites her lip, leaning close. "Lucifer, kids are kinda pick—"

"Nonsense," he says, cutting her off with a dismissive wave. "She'll like this. I'm quite certain.  _You_  like jalapeños, after all."

"Well, yes, but—"

" _Trust_  me, will you?" he says in a tone that doesn't broker argument. He hovers by her ear, and the vanilla scent of his cologne overwhelms the fresh earth scent of the produce. "Though I doubt this will be any healthier than cake. Trade sugar for starch and, well, there we are."

She snorts, whispering back at him, "I just don't want to train her to have sweets for a meal. But she can still have a treat now and then."

"Really, Detective," Lucifer says with a sigh. "Your rules are so terribly  _arbitrary._ "

"You  _like_ my rules," she repeats.

He kisses her. "They're tolerable. As I said."

* * *

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" she calls over her shoulder for what feels like the thirtieth time as Trixie navigates with the remote to her copy of  _Frozen,_ stored somewhere in the bowels of Amazon's servers.

"Yes, darling," Lucifer replies from the kitchen. "Enjoy your movie."

A bowl and a saucepan and a carton of milk and a cutting board litter the countertop in her small kitchen. Lucifer has once again commandeered Dan's old blue "KISS THE COOK" apron. Things clank and clunk as Lucifer bumbles around, tending to his  _mise en place_.

"Okay, if you're sure," she says.

"Quite sure." He makes a dismissive, shooing motion with her spatula. "Watch your movie, yes?"

With a grin, she leans against Trixie's bony shoulder and whispers, "Ready?"

Trixie grins back and nods, hitting the play button, and they snuggle together under their big rainbow-colored blanket.

Time fades. As the narrative of Elsa and Anna unfolds, Chloe loses track of whatever Lucifer is doing behind her. She vaguely hears the creak of the oven door being yanked open, but Lucifer says nothing and doesn't join them. A warm, enticing scent tickles at her nostrils, shifting over time from a hint to a deluge of enticement.

As Trixie's belting out, "Let it go; let it goooooo," Chloe turns once again to check on him, only to find him standing in the kitchen, leaning by the oven, arms folded gracefully over his apron, as he watches her in return. His unblinking expression reminds her of the mixed longing and disbelief some juvenile delinquents display the first time an adult shows them real consideration or care.

She gestures at the couch, at the empty seat beside her, her eyebrows raised, but Lucifer shakes his head. Presenting his back to her, he inspects the delicious-smelling macaroni baking on the other side of the oven glass, instead.

Her heart constricts.

But she doesn't push.

* * *

Lucifer makes them the most decadent macaroni and cheese Chloe's ever freaking seen. It's loaded with havarti and sharp cheddar and jalapeños and bacon, and it's covered in crispy, toasted breadcrumbs. He watches her, unblinking and intent like a cat at a bird feeder as she dips her fork into the creamy, oozing mess on her plate. As soon as the first bite hits her tongue, she can't help the little moan that coils deep in her throat. The sharp cheddar and the jalapeño are soulmates, producing bold flavor with the hot tingle of spice.

"Oh, wow," she mumbles around her mouthful, and her formerly unhungry stomach comes alive with an audible gurgle.

Lucifer leans back in his chair, the wood creaking as tension she didn't realize he even harbored leaks out of him. A smug, self-satisfied smirk creeps across his features. But it's not until he boasts, "Worth the Devil's company, yes?" that she has her painful  _2+2=4_  moment.

"It's spicy," Trixie says, nose wrinkling up as she noisily chews.

Lucifer's gaze shifts to her. "What of it?"

"Macaroni and cheese isn't s'posed to be spicy." Trixie grimaces, swallowing dramatically, like she's been tasked with eating adhesive rather than food. "And it shouldn't have green things in it. I don't like it."

Lucifer's smile drips away.

Chloe sighs. "Trixie, Lucifer made this for us, so—"

"But I don't  _like_  it."

"Trixie," Chloe blurts, "that's  _rude_."

"But—"

"I prefer truthfulness," Lucifer says quietly. He turns to Trixie. "This is not what you desire?"

Trixie frowns. "No. I wanted macaroni and cheese."

"I see," he says in a drawling tone that suggests the opposite. He gestures to the ceramic baking dish perched at the center of the table. "There's cheese in this. And macaroni. How is this not macaroni and cheese to you?"

"It's  _spicy_ ," she whines again.

"But you  _love_  spicy stuff," Chloe counters.

"Not macaroni and cheese!"

Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing as it becomes clear Trixie is pitching a fit only because what she's been served wasn't poured out of a Kraft box. And given that Lucifer has turned this meal into the justification for his presence in the Decker home that night, Trixie's tantrum couldn't be happening at a worse time.

"Trixie," Chloe warns, glaring at her daughter, "Lucifer made this for us. It's perfectly edible. There's nothing in it you haven't eaten before. Either say thank you and eat what's been offered, or go to your room, and I'll bring you something else later."

"But I wanna stay with you and Lucifer!"

"And I can easily make the child something she finds more palatable," Lucifer adds.

"I'm sure you can," Chloe says, "and that's nice of you to offer, but I don't want my daughter thinking she can be rude to you."

"But the child desires—"

" _I_  desire her not to be taking advantage of your solicitousness."

"I am bloody not …  _solicitous_ ," Lucifer says, expelling the last word like it's a curse.

"And I wanna stay with Lucifer!" Trixie repeats, scowling.

"Then say thank you, and eat what Lucifer made for you," Chloe counters calmly.

"But I don't  _want_  it."

Chloe blows out a frustrated breath. "Trixie, you either eat this, or you go to your room. Period."

"But,  _Mommy_!"

"No," Chloe says. "No buts. You say thank you to Lucifer for making you a nice meal, and then you eat it, or you go to your room and miss time with me and Lucifer. Those are your options. End of story."

At which point Trixie snaps, "Fine!" With a withering gaze, she pushes her plate away and folds her arms over her tiny chest.

Silence stretches.

"What is the point of arbitrarily limiting the child's choices?" Lucifer says.

"Yeah, what's the point!"

Chloe clenches and unclenches her jaw, then points to Trixie's plate and says, "If you're not gonna eat, then go to your room," in a frigid Mom-means-it tone.

And things only go downhill from there.

* * *

Trixie is huddled in the dark under her covers when Chloe tiptoes into her room a little while later. Lucifer, flustered after Trixie stomped off, retreated to the patio to get some fresh air.

"Hey, Monkey," Chloe whispers, twisting the switch on the bedside lamp as she sits on the edge of the mattress. The mattress sinks with her weight, and the Trixie-sized lump under the blankets collides with Chloe's hip. "I brought you a hot dog with mustard. Just like you like it."

"I'm not hungry anymore," mutters the lump.

Chloe nods. "Okay." She sets the plate on the nightstand with a sigh. "I know you're mad at me. I understand."

The lump expels a huffy, heavy breath. Chloe rests a palm on the jutting peak of the lump — a shoulder? — and gives it a soothing squeeze and a rub. The heat of Trixie's little body floods through the comforter, soaking into Chloe's hand. She opens her mouth to speak, only to grind to a mental halt as a thought occurs to her. Shit.

How well can Lucifer hear, exactly? Well enough to find her in the dark more than half a mile away. But would he be listening, anyway? Not if he can help it. She's sure of that much. But ears don't come with an off switch, and this is not a discussion for his consumption.

She rises from the bed long enough to turn on the box fan propped on the windowsill. The fan whirs to life, drowning out the quiet, as she flips the dial to high. The papers from Trixie's many art projects flutter and shift, and cool air flows across Chloe's skin.

"Remember last year," she begins as she returns to the bed, the cadence of her voice barely audible on top of the spinning fan, "when you spent hours drawing a picture for the secret Santa gift exchange, and you found your picture in the trash a few minutes after everybody opened their gifts?"

The lump under the covers sniffs. "Yeah."

"Remember how bad that made you feel? When somebody didn't like the gift you spent so much time on?"

The covers rustle as Trixie pokes her head out. Her hair is mussed and frizzy. "I guess so," she says with another sniff, rubbing her puffy eyes with her tiny fingers.

"You felt really unappreciated, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you understand that that's kinda what you did to Lucifer tonight?" Chloe says gently. "You made him feel really unappreciated."

"But he said he'd make me something else!"

Chloe leans closer, brushing Trixie's hair with her fingertips. "Babe, just because he didn't seem hurt to you doesn't mean he wasn't. It's just sometimes Lucifer is so desperate to make other people happy, he forgets his own feelings have value, so he pushes them waaay down where you and I can't see them unless we look hard."

"Why?" says Trixie.

"Well, he didn't grow up like you or I did. He didn't have a mommy and daddy who loved him unconditionally. So, he just … assumes there are conditions."

Trixie frowns. "What conditions?"

"Like …." Chloe clenches her teeth, remembering what he said in the forest.  _This … isn't how you're supposed to react,_ he said, sounding boggled when his tales of the Big Bad Devil torturing demons in Hell failed to scare her away.  _Why wouldn't you …?_ "Like he assumes if you don't like his macaroni, eventually you'll stop wanting him around."

"But that's not true! I don't care if he makes yucky macaroni! He's still funny, and I like him."

"Well,  _I_  know that. And  _you_  know that. But it might take  _him_  a while to know that, too."

"How long?"

Chloe considers for a moment, heart constricting. "I honestly don't know. But that's why it's  _really_  important that we do our best to make him feel appreciated, yeah?"

"Even if it means eating yucky macaroni with green things in it?"

"Yeah, babe, even then. Or, at the very least, sincerely say thank you, and then sit quietly while the rest of us eat." Chloe grins, whispering conspiratorially, "And then I can make you a hot dog, later, when he isn't looking."

"I really didn't mean to hurt his feelings," Trixie says in a tiny, grave voice.

"I know you didn't," Chloe assures her. "Just keep that in mind in the future, yeah?"

Trixie nods.

"Now, do you  _really_ not want this hot dog?" Chloe says, gesturing to the plate on the nightstand.

This time, a head shake.

Chloe strokes her thumb against Trixie's cheek. Her daughter's soft brown eyes glint in the lamplight. "Really not hungry, huh."

Trixie pushes back the covers, sitting up. "No, I am. Is there leftover macaroni? I'll eat that."

Chloe grins. "I bet if you asked Lucifer to reheat some for you, he'd be tickled pink."

"Okay." A pause. "Mommy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you  _have_  to go to work tomorrow?"

Chloe's heart constricts at Trixie's clingy, pleading look. "I'm sorry, babe, I really do. I don't have any leave left."

"Can I come to work with you tomorrow, then?"

"No, you have school," Chloe reminds her. She scoots closer, wrapping her arm over Trixie's shoulder. "But I promise to pick you up as early as possible, and maybe we can watch another movie together. Okay?"

With a sigh, Trixie rises to her feet. "Fine," she says, sounding glum, and then she trudges out of the room.

* * *

"This's some good shit," Maze announces, chewing noisily as she leans against the countertop. Leather creaks, and copious buckles clink as she shifts on booted feet. "What is this? Jalapeño?"

Chloe nods absently. "Did you catch your guy?"

"Not yet," Maze replies. "Going back out again in a minute." Which must be why she didn't bother to remove her coat. She nods toward the back patio. "So, why's he moping?"

Lucifer stands just outside the slanting well of light provided by the interior of the house, the embers of his cigarette butt glowing as he takes a long drag. After he fixed a fresh plate of macaroni and cheese for Trixie's dinner, he retreated outside again and didn't return. "I'm not bloody moping, Mazikeen," he calls back through the glass. "I'm contemplating."

"So, you mean you're moping."

He looks over his shoulder only long enough to scowl. "Haven't you got some human stain to catch?"

"Yeah, yeah." Her smile is feral as she sets down her emptied plate. "Thanks for the refuel."

"Of course," he replies primly, taking another drag.

Maze turns to Chloe. "Still need me to watch the kid on Friday?"

Chloe nods. "Yeah, if that's okay."

"'Course it is, Decker, or I wouldn't have offered," Maze replies with a shrug. She claps her hands together, wiping them off on the dish towel by the sink. And then she gazes back at Chloe. "Hey, thanks for …." Another shrug. "You know."

"I do know," Chloe says, smiling. "You're welcome."

An awkward silence stretches, until Maze clears her throat and turns on her heels. "Later," she says. And then she stomps out the front door as abruptly as she arrived.

* * *

The sliding door rumbles along its tracks as Chloe pushes it open, stepping onto the patio with him. Cigarette smoke curls into the air before floating away on the nighttime breeze.

"Hey," she says as she sidles into the shadow where he's loitering. "You've been pretty scarce tonight."

The whites of his eyes glisten in the darkness, barely visible. The spindly shadows of several cigarette butts lie crushed into the pavers stone at his feet. "That child bloody  _baffles_ me," he says, taking a drag. "Her convictions die faster than mayflies."

"She  _loves_  you. That's stuck for years. That's not going anywhere."

His soft, derisive snort fills the quiet. "Dad knows why."

"I love you," she asserts. "That's not going anywhere, either."

His breath catches in his throat, and his expression constricts briefly into a stressed almost-panicky-looking rictus before he schools himself, pulling the fingers of his free hand through his hair. Locks that were straight earlier in the day are starting to spiral a little, adding to his unraveled look.

"Does it really bother you that much when I say that?" she says, frowning.

"No," he replies quickly enough, clearing his throat. "No, it …." He swallows and doesn't finish his thought. "No."

"I don't expect some sort of commensurate reply, if that's what you're thinking," she assures him.

"It isn't."

Chloe slips her arm over his waist, but underneath his jacket, pressing close. He wraps his free arm around her in a motion that seems reflexive. The acrid smoke smell makes her throat tickle and her eyes water, but she suppresses a cough.

"Can you put that thing out?" she murmurs as she strokes his ribs. "Please?"

"As you desire," he says, without a hint of oily obsequiousness. Just fact. With a flick of his wrist, the cigarette drops to the ground, adding to his pile of ashes, and he stomps on it with his shiny Louboutins.

"Thank you," she says. "I wouldn't have asked, but the smell really bugs my throat."

He nods. "Of course."

She rests her head on his shoulder. "So, talk to me."

He presses his lips to the top of her head. "But I've no idea what to say."

She clenches her fists, making tents out of his waistcoat.

He frowns. "I've frustrated you."

"No," she's quick to say. And then she sighs. "Okay, yes. But I get we've got some … unusual obstacles to overcome, here." For instance, the fact that her significant other is literally older than time. Talk about entrenched reactions to certain things. "I'll deal. You'll explain when you can."

His gaze softens. "You gave me what I desired, darling," he confesses. "You chose  _me_. Of course, being reminded of that doesn't bother me. At least, not in the sense that you're thinking."

"But in some sense, then?" she says.

"It's nothing you can fix."

Implying something is broken. "Should I  _not_  be saying it? That I love you?"

"No," he says. "I … no. Please, continue."

"Okay, well …." She licks her lips, trying not to let her brain go in too many mental loop-de-loops right now. "Lucifer, just so we're crystal clear … family time is not  _quid pro quo._ Okay?"

He frowns. "Pardon?"

"You don't need to justify your presence by making dinner or offering a service or … whatever. You can just come because you wanna come."

A smirk oozes across his moonlit face.

"Oh, my God," she says, grinning. "Shut up."

"Darling, I said nothing."

She rolls her eyes. "Look, just … if you need it in  _Let's-Make-a-Deal_  terms, your presence  _is_ the  _quid pro quo_. I get just as much out of you being here as you do. Fix dinner if you want to, but don't feel like you have to. Okay? I mean it. You're welcome here  _no matter what_."

He's silent for a long moment before saying, "All right."

The breeze ruffles unseen fingers through her hair, and she shivers.

"Cold?" he asks, pulling her close against his chest.

Even in summer, the nighttime temperature in L.A. can drop like a stone in water. She nods. "A little."

His shoulders twitch, and a rustling sound fills the quiet space. The long, dark shadows on the patio melt away, subsumed by an expanding moonlight-colored gleam. Warmth blooms around her. The star-dappled night sky disappears under an unbroken wall of lucid white, and the airy, dry scent of down buries what little remained of the reek of smoke. Feathers. Lustrous. Shining. Wrapped in his arms, she can only see a glowing blur hovering beyond his lapel and arched over their heads, but she can feel his wings draped over her back like a cloak.

"I did promise I'd show them to you later," he says, the words a soft, reassuring rumble through his breastbone. His eyes are glinting.

Her heart hurts as she pulls closer still.

"I love you, too," she says, kissing him through the silk of his shirt.

The minutes whittle away in warm silence.


	2. Another One Bites the Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who's interested, I've created a playlist for all the chapter titles in this story [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLqeCX3p5I8n-bn1WEzRGjsEqbLPk19Uvl). Chapter 2 title credit goes, of course, to Queen. 
> 
> Extra thanks to Wollfgang, who gave me permission to use their idea about Trixie sharing Miss Alien. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback, everybody! I'm so stoked that you're enjoying this story so far!

The body isn't a body so much as paste and parts and pieces of clothing, avulsed over the entire playground like confetti shot from a canon. Number cards reaching all the way into triple digits mark the pieces for collection.

"Dearie me," Lucifer says, peering at the carnage, "did a bomb go off?"

Except none of the playground equipment is damaged. Nobody heard a noise. Students arrived that morning at Saint Angelo Elementary and found … this. Already a macabre mess.

Chloe grimaces, glancing at the shocked crowd milling behind the police cordon. "I don't think so."

"My guess is they fell," says Ella grimly, slapping her thighs as she straightens from a crouch.

"I … beg your pardon?" Lucifer says, the words faint.

"You know. As in succumbed to gravity from a height?"

"But … fell from  _what_?" Chloe asks, squinting against the sunshine as she looks upward. The sky is a bright, clear azure, with no obstructions other than trees and low-lying buildings for miles. "A plane?"

Ella shrugs. "Beats me. All I can tell you is when you throw the human body hard enough at the ground, it behaves a bit like a water balloon. And, well—" She gestures at the playground. "—picture the gore as balloon bits."

Chloe's stomach roils, and for a moment, she has to look away. She's seen the remains of jumpers before. Usually not with this degree of bodily destruction. But still. Carnage of this magnitude never gets easier to take. "Did you find identification?"

"Nope."

The snap of cameras fills the silence, along with the distant murmurs of the disturbed crowd, as the crime scene unit catalogues the evidence.

"Okay," Chloe says, taking a breath. There isn't much they can do without knowing who the victim was and working backward from there. "The F.A.A. might be able to help us determine whether there was a plane overhead last night, but—"

"Not really," Ella interjects.

"Hmm?"

"Not really?" She shrugs again. "Planes go fast. If you fall out of one, you're not gonna end up directly underneath where you fell. Besides gravity yanking you downward, inertia will still be yanking you forward. Without having any idea what height this person fell out of the plane from, what direction the plane was going in, or what speed it was flying at — not to mention all the variables involved in the victim achieving terminal velocity during his or her descent — let  _alone_ the time of death or which way and how fast the wind was blowing, there are waaay too many unknowns right now to pin this to a specific plane."

Chloe folds her arms. "And you can't determine time of death?"

"Yeaaah," Ella says slowly, frowning as she glances around at the mess, "standard temperature and lividity calculations kiiiiinda go out the window when the 'body' is essentially the busted remains of a piñata."

"Great." Chloe sighs. "So, I guess we have to wait for an I.D."

"Yep," Ella agrees, nodding. "I already sent some D.N.A. back for testing, though. And the fingers are all intact, so I got some prints, too."

"That's good. Keep me posted. Lucif—" But Lucifer is gone. Chloe frowns. "Where'd he go?"

Ella and Chloe scan the scene in separate directions. He's not "helping" forensics or chatting up any of the goggling onlookers. He's not—

"There," Ella says, pointing.

Chloe turns, following the gesture with her gaze across the playground and the fence and the far parking lot to her cruiser. Lucifer's motionless silhouette fills the front-passenger-side window with a dark shadow.

"Not feeling the crime-solving-Devil thing today, I guess," Ella says.

"Yeah," Chloe replies, frown deepening, "I guess."

She tries to think of a time he's ever left a crime scene without first subjecting her to a melodramatic soliloquy about more appropriate uses for his time, though, let alone stuck around by waiting in the car for her, and she draws a blank.

"Is he okay?" Ella hazards.

Chloe turns back to her. "Hmm?"

"Since, you know—" Ella covers her mouth with her hand, her shoulders hunching and her voice shifting into a conspiratorial murmur. "—since the kidnapping? Maybe, he's just done with violence and ick for the day."

"Maybe," Chloe concedes, yet … that theory doesn't seem like it fits, either.

* * *

As she draws closer to the car, the glow of the cigarette butt clenched between his long, arching fingers becomes more obvious. He takes a drag and blows it out. Smoke curls in thin tendrils through the open window before dispersing.

He doesn't acknowledge her as she opens the front door, or as she settles into the driver's-side seat. At the smoky odor, her eyes water, and her throat constricts. "You know I don't like you doing that in here," she says, trying not to cough. "Also … we're sitting on school property." She directs a pointed look toward the no-smoking sign attached to the chain-link fencing only two parking spaces away.

Except he doesn't reply.

"Lucifer?"

But he's a million miles away, unblinking and still, in an uncanny-valley way that makes her shiver. That reminds her what he is. Not human. At all.

"Hey, are you okay?" she says, reaching across the parking brake. "What's wrong?"

The second her fingertips brush the soft wool of his suit, he flinches away, his big body slamming into the side of the car. "Do not  _touch_ me!" he snaps, wild-eyed as ash flutters onto his lap from his cigarette.

"Sorry!" she rushes to say, yanking back her hand, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. "I'm sorry!"

And then he blinks. And then he slumps, panting, grimacing at the mess he made. He opens the car door and flicks the ash onto the pavement. The cigarette, too.

"Detective," he says miserably as he dips a toe out of the car to stomp on the spent butt. The sole of his shoe makes a scraping sound as he twists his ankle back and forth. "I …." He shakes his head as he resettles. "Apologies, I …." A wince. "Apologies."

"Hey, don't worry about it." Adrenaline recedes as quickly as it got dumped into her bloodstream, leaving her trembling. Whoa. She sweeps her shaking palms over her forehead and through her hair, taking slow, calming breaths. "Where on earth were you just now?"

No answer.

"Lucifer?"

His brittle smile — more a grimace — doesn't reach his eyes, though she only gets a glimpse of his expression before he looks away to fumble with his seatbelt. The belt clicks as he snaps it into place. "Why, I'm in your car," he says too brightly. His left temple flutters as his jaw clenches. "Obviously."

"Lucifer—"

"So, what's next in our investigation, Detective?"

"There's nothing we can do until we get a positive identification on the victim."

He nods. "Ah."

The smoke-filled sigh he expels makes her frown again. He almost seems … relieved?

"Lucifer. Really." She resists the urge to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Another brittle, fake smile. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Beats me," she says with a shrug. "That's why I'm asking."

"Hmm."

"Did the crime scene bother you? Or something?"

He looks away again, almost squirming, either unwilling or unable to meet her eyes.

"You've never been bothered by gore  _before_."

"It wasn't the bloody gore," he grumbles.

The closest to an outright admission she'll probably get. But if it wasn't the gore, then what was it?

"Do you want to talk about it?" she says gently.

The door handle groans as he grips it. "I do not."

"Okay." She nods, not willing to push, yet. "Well, I'm here if you ever want to, yeah?"

"Of course, Detective."

The car rumbles to life as she twists her key in the ignition, but she doesn't drive away from the scene, yet. She pauses, looking over at him. His eyes are dark and full of frothing thoughts she isn't privy to. Still ….

"Hey," she adds softly, and he looks at her. "I love you, you know."

The tight, tiny little nod he gives her makes her heart constrict. What she doesn't expect, though, is when he leans over, jerking forward an inch, and then back half-an-inch, and then swooping forward again, this time all the way. Her personal space fills with his warmth and the scent of vanilla, and then he presses his lips to hers — a soft, brief, tactile little confirmation that, while maybe he can't say the words just yet, he loves her, too.

The beside her seat creaks as he pulls away and settles. He clears his throat. "Back to the precinct?"

"Yeah." Her smile  _hurts_ it's so obnoxious. "To the precinct."

* * *

Absent anything to do that isn't paperwork, she expects Lucifer to disappear on arrival, but he doesn't. Instead of hopping into his car and heading back to Lux, he sits in a chair across from her desk and pulls out his phone to play games. Like he just wants to be near her — or near civilization — without the effort of drumming up a conversation. She leaves him be, opting to catch up on her paperwork instead.

"Slow day, huh," Ella comments hours later as she drops off a manilla folder full of freshly developed crime-scene photos. "I mean … Sandbox-Paste Guy aside."

Chloe grins. "You know … a slow day is actually a  _good_ thing in our profession."

"Yeah," Ella replies without hesitation. "Still." She takes a breath and blows it out, sitting on the edge of Chloe's desk. "Slow. Damned. Day."

The manilla folder crinkles as an ever-nosy Lucifer dips his fingers inside. "Lucifer, no, don't look. That's—" Chloe has a chance to say.

His face pales when he gets a peek at the first photo — Chloe can't see anything at this angle except a wet-looking smear of red. "Right," he says tiredly. "Of course." He shoves the envelope away. "Someone plummets to their death in sheer bloody terror, and it's a  _slow_  day for you lot."

"Lucifer, you know she didn't mean it like  _that,"_ Chloe says. "There's just nothing we can  _do_ about it, yet."

"And it's super possible they weren't afraid, you know," Ella interjects gently. "They might not have been awake, for one. Or falling might have been what they wanted — I mean, not to be insensitive to the dead or anything — but finding peace, you know?" She grimaces, giving herself the sign of the cross.

"Finding peace," Lucifer parrots as he rises to his full imposing height. "Finding  _peace_? I assure you, this wasn't peaceful in the slightest."

"Lucifer," Chloe says softly, and he stills.

"Yeah, dude, are you okay?" Ella adds, her wide brown eyes full of concern.

His gaze flicks back and forth between them. "I'm—" His jaw works as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. "—fine."

Ella raises her arms, grinning. "Sounds like  _someone_  needs a hu—"

"Do  _not_ ," he enunciates in a tone so arctic the air feels suddenly like a meat freezer, "touch me."

Ella's grin drips away. "Well, I'm here if you change your mind."

"I will not."

"Yeaaah, okay. Never let it be said I can't read bad vibes."

"Bad vibes." Lucifer's grin is wolfish and without cheer as he cocks his head. "Is  _that_ what this is?"

"Um, yeah, I'll just—" Ella glances nervously toward her lab. "—be somewhere that isn't here." Waving, she turns on her heel. "Bye!"

At which point Lucifer sits down with a derisive snort and resumes doodling on his phone.

"Lucifer, what the hell is—" Chloe snaps her jaw shut as her brain starts to work. Their victim. Their victim fell. Far. And …. Her stomach flip-flops as her mind's eye tugs her into another time and place.  _Where do I begin?_ he said, bitter and upset.  _With the grandest fall in the history of time? Or perhaps the far more agonizing punishment that followed._ "Oh."

The beeps coming from his phone cease. His dark gaze meets hers. "Yes," he says, the word full and weighty and pained, as though he's followed her from inkling to conclusion despite her not speaking a word. "I did."

Lucifer fell.

Far.

In "sheer bloody terror."

Shit.

She squeezes her eyes shut. She thought she'd been doing well. Adjusting. Yet suddenly she can only see how far she still has to go. Her significant other — the man sitting right across her desk from her — fell from Heaven. A place that is literal. So was his fall. What she'd always thought of as a parable in a book of parables is real. It's  _real_. And those traumatic events shaped the man she knows today.

"When I said earlier that you can talk to me," she tells him slowly, "I meant about  _everything,_ yeah? Even the … the … well, the 'S-Satan stuff.'"

"Quite the dramatic turnaround on your part," he notes with an arched eyebrow.

She blushes, gaze falling to her lap.

"I'm aware you're willing to hear me, now, darling," he says, offering her a clipped nod before he looks awkwardly away. "I've simply no wish to speak of it."

"Do you want to sit this investigation out? It's okay if that's what you need."

"No."

"Okay," she says, nodding. "Just making sure you knew."

"Your feelings are crystal clear, indeed."

She leans back in her chair, satisfied. She flips her screen back to the arrest report she's been trying to finalize. Soft bings and pew-pew-pews from Lucifer's phone fill the comfortable, stretching silence. Despite having nothing to do but play his phone games, he sits with her until she clicks the "save and print" button on her report.

* * *

"Fuck!" she exclaims, her post-orgasmic lassitude snapping away like someone pulled out the sheets from beneath her. She pushes off the mattress onto all fours.

Lucifer's fingertips drift sinuously up her spine. "Catching up, now, are we?" Warm, lavender-scented oil drips down her bare skin.

"No. No, I mean … my pill," she says. She scrambles off the side of the mattress and beelines for the master bathroom. "I forgot my pill this morning."

"What pill?" he calls after her.

She tips her head back from the sink, peering around the doorframe at him with an incredulous look. "Birth control?"

Lit, scented candles flicker and dance on her nightstands. He caps the oil bottle he'd been using and rises from the bed, frowning. "Birth control?" he echoes, like the words are foreign.

"Um. Yes?" she says turning back to the medicine cabinet. She shuffles past NyQuil and Pepto and ibuprofen. "Hello, I  _really_ don't want another kid right now."

A pause follows. She grabs the blister pack she wants and pops out the pill for that day. Fuck, she can't believe she forgot. She chucks the pill into her mouth and washes it down with water from a Dixie cup. Even with the water, though, the pill drifts down her esophagus, an uncomfortable descending lump.

Lucifer appears behind her, as naked as she is. His oily palms come to rest against her shoulders. His erection bumps into the small of her back as he presses close. He rests his chin on her head, peering at her in the mirror.

"Darling," he says, eyeballing the blister pack, "that's … really not a concern with me."

She blinks. "It isn't?"

"We may look the same," he continues, "but I'm a completely different species."

She drops the blister pack onto the edge of the sink and turns to him. "So, you can't—" She can't stop herself from looking down. At his unmistakable, now-renewed interest. Her lower body stirs again at the sight. "—Um."

"No, I can't. Not with you." His arms wrap around her waist. "And I can't pass you any diseases, either. Nor can I catch them. We're simply … incompatible in that respect. All right?"

She bites her lip. "That … makes sense in retrospect."

"You were really that concerned?" he says as they move back to the bed.

"Well, I mean, you didn't exactly make a secret of your …." She frowns, trying to think of a kind word to use.

A grin tugs at his lips. "Promiscuity?"

"Yeah." She laughs as she lowers herself back onto her stomach. "Yeah, I admit I maybe had a brief, horrible flash to a zillion half-angel babies with syphilis crawling around L.A."

He scoffs. "Even I'm not that irresponsible."

"Sorry."

"It's … not an undeserved concern on your part."

"Still … sorry," she says, blushing as he straddles her butt. "We should have talked about this earlier, I guess."

"You Americans." He splays his fingers against the back of her ribcage and resumes his expert massage. "Still so repressed."

With a relaxed sigh, she flops her head down onto her pillow. "Guilty as charged."

The heady scent of lavender fills her nose as he works his magic, kneading out all her stress knots and nondescript tension. She closes her eyes, relishing the feel of him against her. His body is warm, and his touch is sure. She lets herself drift, basking in the soft candlelight.

"You didn't panic about any pills in Val-d'Or," he muses.

"You know … they do have drugstores in Canada," she replies, not bothering to open her eyes. "They're kind of a first-world country. Where did you think I got the condoms?"

"Complements of the hotel?"

"That's a thing hotels do, now?"

"Some, yes."

His smile is the audible kind. The infectious kind. A grin tugs at her lips as she asks, "What are you smirking at?"

"It would seem that our Canadian coupling was perhaps a bit more premeditated than I first thought?"

"Well, gee, you were only coming into my hand a few days before that," she says. "I figured better safe than sor—"

"Darling, I didn't intend to insult to your would-be spontaneity." He stops for a moment, palms resting against her shoulder blades. "I'm … well, I'm really rather flattered."

"Oh."  _Oh._  Her heart aches over the idea that he would so enjoy the novelty of not being an impulse buy. "Well, I mean, of course, I planned it, Lucifer." She opens her eyes, though she can't see much of him in this position. Reaching back with her hand, she finds his knee resting on the sheets by her lowest rib, and gives him a squeeze. "I love you. Remember?"

"So you have said."

"I'll say it again," she replies. "And again. And again." As many times as he needs to hear— She frowns. "Hey, wait."

"Yes?" he says as he resumes, digging into the tension over her upper back.

"If you—oh, that's good. Right there!" He presses harder. "If you knew this whole damned time you couldn't get me pregnant or sick, then why the hell did you just … go along with the whole condom thing?"

"Because you desired it," he says.

She clenches her fingers against the sheets. "Well, what do  _you_ prefer? What feels best to  _you?_ "

He leans down to kiss her shoulder blades. "I prefer nothing to be between us."

She can't argue with that.

"Well, let's do that, then, from now on, since it's safe," she says. "Okay?"

He kisses her again, shifting to lie beside her. "Shall we do it, now? A test run?"

Her insides throb at the thought. "Mmm," she purrs, rolling to face him. "Yes, please."

She reaches down to cup him, giving his length a stroke with her thumb. His feather-soft skin is hot with coursing interest, and he hums with pleasure as his eyelids dip.

"Here's to test runs," she murmurs, inching closer, pressing her lips to his.

* * *

She snaps awake to a yell so cacophonous she mistakes the rumbling for an earthquake. A 4.5, at least, her groggy mind concludes. Until he yells again, yanking her out of the liminal space between dreams and reality. His legs scissor across the bed underneath the comforter like he's trying to run from something. His body contorts, the tendons in his neck bulging with strain. He barely misses kicking her.

"Lucifer," she says, reaching for him, but the moment her fingertips brush his bare shoulder he writhes away like she scalded him, shouting something sibilant and echoing and inhuman.

His fingers clench, ripping up tents of her favorite sheets.

"Lucifer," she tries again. "You're having a bad dream. Lucifer!"

Another yell. His torso whips forward at the waist as he sits up, yanking the comforter off her body. A rustling noise and the raucous snap of breaking glass follows, and then she's blinking slowly up at the huge, curving wall of white feathers forming his left wing. The flight feathers jag out like gleaming knives, stabbing through the space a few feet above her face. The ragged sound of his distressed panting fills the new quiet.

"... Lucifer?" she says, stunned.

But he doesn't speak.

All she can see is his trembling wing, and his trembling side. She rubs her eyes and sits up, ducking out from underneath the swell of moonlit feathers. He turns away from her, looking toward the window, instead. The broken window. Which his other wing punched through when he extended it.

Holy …. "Lucifer," she repeats, the word inflected with horror.

The warm glow of his feathers lights the interior of the room enough to see his face. The side of it, anyway. His lower lip quivers. Just a brief shiver of movement she barely catches before it's gone.

"Did I hurt you?" is all he says in a throaty, miserable tone.

"No." She steps around the bed. He cranes his head further in the opposite direction, like he refuses to look at her. Or … like he refuses to have her looking at  _him_. She stops her forward motion, and she sits on the end of the bed, giving his toes a squeeze through the sheets, wondering what in the hell to say.  _It was just a dream_ seems like the exact wrong thing in this situation, but ... She settles on, "I'm here."

"Mommy," calls a small voice from the hallway as the door creaks open, "what was the noi— whoa."

Heart pounding, Chloe's attention snaps to the left. Trixie's standing in the doorway in her penguin pajamas, eyes widening to the size of pie plates. Lucifer's wings are still fully extended over the room, a gleaming lucid white umbrella.

"Bloody fucking hell," he says, cringing, the words rough and thick like he's an inch away from crying.

His shoulders twitch, and the wings snap out of reality, prompting another, "Whoa!" and a giggle from Trixie. He leans forward to bury his face in his hands, like he'd rather die and melt into the mattress than face a nine-year-old.

"It was just a nightmare, baby," Chloe says, trying to stay calm as she rises to shepherd Trixie away, leaving Lucifer behind to collect himself. "Nothing to worry about. Let's get you back to bed."

" _Lucifer_  has  _nightmares_?"

"Everybody does."

The stairs creak as they descend. Trixie takes a flying leap back into her bed. Chloe pulls the covers over Trixie's bare feet and legs.

Her grin fiendish, Trixie clutches at the blankets. "His wings are  _so_ cool. Can I see them again later?"

Chloe blinks, not sure what the hell to say. "You're okay? With what you saw?"

"Well, I knew he's an angel, Mommy." Trixie shrugs. "'Course, he's got wings."

Huh. If only Chloe had been nine when Lucifer had first shown her his face. She pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a calming breath. "Okay, well, we can talk more about this in the morning, yeah? But you have to promise not to pester him. You can ask him  _once_ about his wings when he's not busy with something else, and if he says no, that's that."

"I promise, Mommy."

"Okay, good. I love you."

"Love you, too."

Chloe's already at the threshold when Trixie adds in a small voice, "Can you take Miss Alien to Lucifer? She always helps me with my nightmares."

Chloe's heart constricts. "I will  _definitely_ do that, Monkey. That's sweet of you to offer." She grabs the stuffy in question from top of Trixie's nightstand, offering Trixie a wet-eyed smile, before closing the door.

She almost plows into Lucifer as he lumbers down the stairs, hunched over like Quasimodo. His eyes are bleary, and his hair is mussed. His shirt is buttoned unevenly, and one of his shoelaces drags on the floor like a tangle of spaghetti. Like he couldn't get dressed fast enough.

"Hey," she says, splaying her fingertips against his belly to catch herself. She crushes Miss Alien against his belt, which isn't buckled. "Where are you going? Are you okay?"

"I can't bloody well sleep in your bed if these bloody things will be popping out of their own volition, now, can I?" he says, distraught. "It isn't bloody safe for you. For  _anyone._ "

"Lucifer, you didn't hurt me."

His palms rasp over his stubble as he scrubs at his face. "Well, I bloody well could have."

She can't exactly refute him.

He takes a quivering, upset breath, staring into space beyond her shoulder. "I'll pay for repairs and replacements. You've my sincerest apologies about your window and your sheets."

"Lucifer, I know you will. I'm not even worried about repairs right now."

But he won't look at her. "I didn't intend to traumatize your child," is all he says.

"She isn't traumatized."

He scoffs.

"She  _isn't_ ," Chloe repeats. "She thought your wings were cool."

" _Cool,_ is it." Not a question. The word cool sounds foreign on his tongue.

Chloe nods. "She's probably gonna ask you if she can see them again, actually. I mean, just to warn you."

Another scoffing noise.

She foists Miss Alien at his chest, forcing him to accept the offering or drop it. He accepts. "She wanted you to have this, by the way."

He frowns, looking down at the fuzzy, bloodstained little creature. His fingers clench. "… Why?"

"To help with the nightmares."

"Ah." The word is small. He takes a heavy, quivering breath, like he's close to falling apart.

She cups his cheek, tipping his gaze back to her. He lets her. "Please, don't go," she says. "It's late, and you're upset, and you shouldn't be alone right now."

His swallow is audible.

"Take the couch if it'll make you feel more secure," she says. "Just, please, don't leave like this."

"Very well."

She slumps with relief, leaning forward to kiss him. Their noses bump. The steps creak in the quiet as his weight shifts. "Do you want to talk about it?" she murmurs against him. "Your dream, I mean."

"No."

"Okay." She runs her palm down his side. "Let me get you some blankets, then."

* * *

Still wearing his disheveled suit, he's sitting dead center on the couch, Miss Alien clutched tightly in his lap, when she returns with a heavy down comforter. The night is cool but not cold — she isn't at all worried about the broken window in a weather sense — but Lucifer is a heat sink. He'll gladly soak up any morsel of warmth he can find, and she's happy to provide him any succor she can think of.

"Have you any idea how sharply a recollection can prick when you've perfect recall?" he says, sounding distant — out of body, almost — as he stares into space.

"I don't." She drapes the comforter across his shoulders.

He pulls it over himself like a cocoon and tucks himself away. "How I envy you."

A lump forms in her throat. She wants to say things. She wants to say everything. But nothing seems appropriate or helpful. Instead, she pulls off his shoes for him, yanking the covers over his toes. He pulls inward, halfway approaching a fetal position, his soft parts all presented to the couch cushions instead of to her. She squeezes his shoulder through the blanket, trying to show him some support, only to yank her hand away when he flinches.

"Sorry," she says.

"It's all right, darling."

And then she leaves him be.

* * *

She half expects to wake to the smell of sizzling bacon wafting up from her kitchen — she's grown accustomed to his culinary skills and his early morning industriousness. Instead, the shrill blare of her phone's alarm reels her in from dreaming. When she pads down the steps to get breakfast started for Trixie, she finds the blanket-covered lump that is Lucifer still hulking on her couch, and Trixie hovering several feet away staring intently at him with a frown.

"Child, must you?" grumbles the lump before Chloe can pull Trixie away.

"Must I what?" says Trixie.

"I can bloody feel you  _staring_."

Which only prompts Trixie to giggle as Chloe grasps at her shirt and shepherds her toward the kitchen.

* * *

"Please?" Trixie says.

Lucifer hangs over his steaming coffee cup like a wilted flower. "No."

"Pretty please?"

"No."

"Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"Babe, he  _just_ woke up," Chloe admonishes her daughter. "Leave him be. I said you could ask him  _once_."

His dark eyes are bleary, his stubble is a dark swath, and his hair is crooked. He looks as though someone left him in the washer on spin cycle for too long. Trixie sits across the table from him digging into a sopping bowl of cereal. She grins at him, showing him her vast array of slightly crooked, newly adult teeth.

"What is … that?" he says, pointedly glancing at her spoon as she lifts it to her lips.

"Luh-he Hawms," she mumbles around her mouthful.

He directs a questioning look at Chloe.

"Pure sugar," Chloe supplies as she picks a piece off her bran muffin and stuffs it into her mouth. "You'd like it." He gives the box a listless appraisal before returning to the contemplation of his untouched coffee. His slumped demeanor and the puffy circles clinging to his eyes remind her of how he was in the woods. When he was not-so-slowly dying in front of her eyes. She can't help but add a too-sharp, "Aside from not getting any sleep, you're okay, right?"

"Truly, you needn't worry over me," he replies in a measured tone.

She nods, her muffin's wrapper crinkling as she picks at it. "Sorry, I don't mean to be clingy."

"I'd hardly call you clingy unless we're talking of your hapless muffin."

"You killed it, Mommy," Trixie adds in a faux-dire tone.

Chloe glances down, only to make a sheepish, aborted laugh. All that remains on her plate is a pile of dry crumbs and crumpled, filmy paper. Oops. She makes a point of pushing her plate toward the center of the table, away from her immediate and overly nervous reach.

Lucifer takes a sip of his coffee, wincing a little. He looks at Trixie, eyes narrowing, calculating. Then back to Chloe. And then, without announcement or warning, with a bare flick of his shoulders, he fills her kitchen with his hulking, gleaming wings. The sharp edges brush against the cabinets, knocking one shut. Magnets and menus fall off the refrigerator. Displaced air turns the ceiling fan a quarter revolution.

Chloe inhales sharply as Trixie lets out a shriek of delight. Her chair squeals across the floor tiles as she leaps to her feet. "Lucifer, that's so COOL," she shouts as she skids around the side of the table, stopping just short of a long, bladed feather tip. The feather — the whole wing — drifts up and down in the air as Lucifer breathes.

The sight makes Chloe ache. Divinity. In her home. In broad daylight. Unobscured. No matter how many times he whips his wings out for her, she doesn't think the sight of them will ever be less than breathtaking.

"As you can see," Lucifer says calmly, taking another sip of his coffee, "I'm quite healthy."

Trixie stretches out a hand with grasping, wiggling fingers. "Can I touch them?"

His wings lift overhead, snapping out of her immediate reach, and he scowls. "Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"No."

"But—"

"Your hands are  _sticky_ ," he explains, looking down his nose at her.

Trixie frowns. "No, they're not."

"Yes, they bloody are."

"I could wash them, first?"

"No."

"Trixie, stop  _pestering_  him," Chloe croaks when she finds her voice.

With a disappointed sigh, and a woeful, "Okay, Mommy," Trixie inches back to her chair, to the coagulating bowl of Lucky Charms she left behind in her excitement.

Lucifer relaxes his wings to the ground again, until the feathers almost brush the floor, but not quite. The soft barbs of his longest primaries float a hair's width from the grody tile. Now, that would be wrong, Chloe thinks, as she chokes down another handful of dry bran crumbs. Lucifer's beautiful wings dragging on her scuzzy kitchen floor. And, God, how is this her freaking life, now, that she's worrying about divinity conflicting with her cleaning habits? She shakes her head, taking a sip of her orange juice to clear her throat.

"So, what do you say, Monkey?" she prods in the proceeding silence.

For a moment, Trixie only stares wide-eyed.

"Babe?"

"Thank you, Lucifer," Trixie chirps in a singsong tone.

"You're quite welcome," he replies with a nod.

And Chloe thinks that's that. That, now that he's sated Trixie's burning curiosity, sated Chloe's need for reassurance, he'll fold them away. But he doesn't. Even after he's drained his coffee cup dry, and Trixie's little body is practically vibrating as she continues to stare wide-eyed at his every graceful move, his wings remain unfurled. He leaves them out even as he stands, gaze intent on the living room where he left most of his wrinkled suit. He glances at the face of his gleaming gold Rolex.

"As much as I hate to furl and run on you—" His wings fold neatly behind his lithe frame, but don't disappear. "—I've a wine shipment coming in, among other things."

"That's okay," Chloe says dumbly, unable to stop staring. "… See you later this afternoon?"

He beams at her despite his haggard appearance. "Of course, darling."

"You're not gonna go to work with Mommy?" Trixie says.

His eyes narrow. "Not this morning, no. Later, yes."

"But what if something happens?"

Chloe sighs. She's not the only one being clingy. "Nothing will happen, babe. I promise."

"But … what if—"

"Child, remember what we talked about after your nightmare a few weeks ago?" Lucifer says, raising his eyebrows in inquiry. "About your mother and her special talents?"

"About … Mommy being a superhero?"

"Right," he says with a nod. "And I  _never_  lie."

Trixie gives him an ambivalent look, but says, "Okay."

He takes an aborted step toward the couch and then stops, wings rustling. With a put-upon sigh expelled like a bullet, he offers a withering, sidelong glance at Trixie. "Ten seconds," he says, folding his arms. "No bloody groping. No bloody  _petting_. I am not a bloody cat."

With a jubilant squeal that makes him wince, Trixie scrambles out of her chair again, all former woes forgotten. Chloe can only blink in amazement as her daughter dips her hands wrist deep into shining angel feathers.

Seriously.

How is this her life, now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> [Art by Zee](https://zeearts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	3. Bravado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title credit goes to Lorde. Thank you so much, everybody, for all the lovely feedback!

She can't find a parking space in the staff lot at work, eventually resorting to parking in the more distant garage where they keep unassigned vehicles and seized property. The hike back to the precinct takes her ten minutes. A uni she doesn't recognize bumps into her as she reaches for the brass door handle at the front entrance.

"Sorry, ma'am," the young man says as he holds open the door for her.

"No problem," she replies, frowning as they spill into the bustling precinct.

The decibel level inside the building is twice what it normally is. Every desk has a body planted at it. Detectives. Beat cops. Administrative staff. Ella and Dan hover by Dan's desk, chatting.

"Hey, guys," Chloe says, dumping her purse into her chair before stepping over. "What the heck is going on?"

Ella frowns. "You didn't get the memo?"

"What memo?"

"You know," Ella says, "the memo that … got … sent—" Realization creeps over her face in a slow tide. "—while you were—" Her eyes widen, and she adds in a rush, "—off-in-the-French-Canadian-yonder-crap-I'm-sorry."

Dan rolls his eyes. "Apparently, we have a mandatory all-hands 'team-building' seminar." He puts the words "team building" in air quotes. "Something to do with fostering unity after—"

"—Pierce was a two-faced murderous  _jerk_ who got a big faceful of stabby-stabby  _karma_ ," Ella finishes.

Dan glances at Ella with a flat expression and then back to Chloe. "The memo didn't say that part specifically."

"I figured," Chloe replies, giving them a wry look. Before McDowell had sent her out with Lucifer to look into the accidental shooting the week before, she'd barely had more than two hours to catch up on all the office mail she'd missed. She sighs. "Team building, huh?"

"Yep," Ella says. "Is Lucifer coming to this thing? That'd be a hoot, at least."

"I don't think so. He had some stuff to do at Lux this morning." And even if he didn't, he gets along with precinct bureaucracy about as well as a pet goldfish gets along with the family cat. One whiff of "seminar," and he'd probably flee in the opposite direction. "Though, he might be in later to see if we got an I.D."

"We didn't," Ella says, grimacing. "Lab results are all back. No prints, no D.N.A. matches, no nothing. Doesn't match any active missing-persons cases. Whoever Sandbox-Paste Guy is, he isn't in any databases, yet."

"Are you sure he's a guy?"

Ella nods. "D.N.A. test confirmed. Also, we found that part relatively intact."

Yuck. Okay, then. "So, really, we're stuck waiting for a missing-persons case that lines up."

"Pretty much," Dan says.

Chloe frowns. "What  _do_  we have, anyway?"

"We know he's Caucasian," Ella begins, "and that he has black hair, brown eyes, type O-neg blood, a silver filling in one of his wisdom teeth, and a U.C.L.A. class ring. Oh, and he was wearing something dark blue."

Chloe nods. "Well, that's a start. Should be pretty easy to match up as soon as someone reports him missing." She looks around at the milling crowd. "So, when does this team-building thing start?"

* * *

Ella reaches out with both arms, a serene grin on her face as she tips her body backward, surrendering to gravity. For a moment, she's trapped in free fall. Then a dozen or so pairs of hands belonging to the detectives in both Vice and Homicide reach out to catch her.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Ella exclaims, pumping her fist in triumph as Ed Myers from Vice helps her right herself.

"That was excellent, Ms. Lopez," notes Lisa Kim, the facilitator, as she wanders past with a clipboard and pen. "Remember, it's important to have faith in your colleagues! You're putting your lives in their hands every day, and without faith, there's what?"

"Stress and poor decisions," everybody regurgitates in a flat, tired tone.

After a painfully long PowerPoint presentation about all the nail-biter statistics of police work, including the number of injuries and deaths on the job — 129 officers from local, state, and federal agencies had died in 2017, and that figure was on target to rise in 2018 — Ms. Kim spent the remainder of the time pontificating about the importance of unity and trust to keep everybody safe. She then broke up the staff into teams by departments and sent them to the far corners of the auditorium, into the conference rooms, and out into the hallways.

Vice and Homicide had gotten stuck together. Ella was instructed to follow the people she worked with most. Which resulted in the nightmare Chloe now found herself stuck in: Dan, Ella, Chloe, and everybody in the precinct who thinks Chloe is a stain on the police force. Chloe keeps her head down, shoulders hunched, as she hangs toward the back of the cluster, hoping nobody notices h—

"Detective Decker," Ms. Kim says.

A dozen sharp pairs of eyes swivel in Chloe's direction.

"Uh." Chloe clears her throat. "Yes?"

"Come to the front, Detective," Ms. Kim prods, waving her forward with a big, beaming smile. "Come, come, come."

Chloe slinks through the crowd, noticing — not for the first time — the number of unyielding shoulders and pointy elbows in her way. Detective Kasinski, in particular, rather than stepping aside to let her pass, glares at her and sets his frame, showing off his broad biceps and bulging pecs, along with the prominent gun holster tucked underneath his armpit. Unsympathetic gazes follow her progress through the human obstacle course. No one says a word.

"It would seem you've had quite the rough year," Ms. Kim observes as she shuffles through several papers in the sheaf tacked to her clipboard. "Quite the rough  _several_  years."

"What a crock of shit," someone — Ed? — mumbles under his breath.

Chloe swallows. "Yes, ma'am."

Ms. Kim looks over the group with a ponderous expression before returning her focus to Chloe. "Do you trust your coworkers to have your back?"

Chloe's stomach drops out through the floor. She swallows again, warning klaxons screaming in her head. "I … trust everybody to do their jobs." That's diplomatic. Right?

Ms. Kim smiles. "That's wonderful! But what about those 'above and beyond' situa—"

"Well, well, what silly human ritual have we  _here_?" Lucifer says a bit too gleefully.

"… Who?" says Ms. Kim.

"Lucifer Morningstar," he purrs from behind the pile of police officers. "And you, my dear?"

Ms. Kim's eyes widen. "L-Lisa. Kim. Lisa Kim."

"Charmed."

Her face reddens. She tugs at her collar, undoing the topmost button. "I've … heard about you."

"Well, of course you have!" he replies in a patronizing tone. "Who hasn't?" His sleek black suit contrasts sharply with his shirt, which is angel-feather white. A little pop of red adorns his breast pocket where he keeps his handkerchief. He gestures to himself, his fingertips barely brushing his lapel. "Devil, after all."

Unlike for Chloe, the crowd bows slowly out of Lucifer's path like Lucifer is the tide coming in. Unstoppable. Absolute. He glides past Kasinski, and Myers, and everybody, fiddling gracefully with his gleaming cufflinks. When he reaches the front of the group, he smiles, showing teeth in a display reminiscent of a yawning lion.

"Now, tell me," he commands, sparing a tiny troubled glance at Chloe before his bothered-by-nothing-the-peons-do mask slips back in place. He presses close beside her, angling his much larger body in front of hers. "What daft little game have you been subjecting my partner to, now?"

"Lucifer, it's fine," Chloe whispers through clenched teeth. "I'm f—"

"It's for team building!" Ella chirps.

He tilts his head. "Team building, hmm?" The words are smooth and sweet like syrup. "Well, I'm part of this  _team_ , am I not?" He puts the word team in air quotes.

The cluster of detectives says nothing, resettling into their glares and disapproving posturing as they recover from Lucifer's sudden, suffocating attack of presence. In the silence, Dan awkwardly replies, "Of course, you are, man."

"Right?" Ella adds, nodding too enthusiastically. "Come on, guys. Where's the love?"

"Snitches are bitches," someone mutters.

"And sinners aren't winners," Lucifer retorts without pause. He snickers at the surprised looks he gets. "Yes, yes, I can make derogatory rhymes as well." He gestures to his glaring audience. "You're the sinners, by the way. I was talking of you all. Sans Ms. Lopez, of course. In case that fact has escaped you."

Dan drops his gaze to his shoes.

"Now, now," Ms. Kim rushes to say, shaking her head. "There's no need for such hostil—"

"Oh, I think there is," Lucifer purrs, "if this terribly tense milieu I've just traipsed into is any indication." He runs his tongue along the edges of his teeth, eyes alight with a predatory glint as he fixes his gaze on Kasinski. "By all means, namecall if you think it'll save you. Hint: it won't. Most of this corrupt little organization is going straight to Yours Truly in the end. You, in particular." Kasinski has the good sense to look away. Lucifer turns to Ms. Kim. "Now, do tell. What must I do to take the detective's place in this … gauntlet … thing?"

"You really don't have to do that," Chloe rushes to say.

"It's not a gauntlet," adds Ms. Kim. "That's not the intent at all."

"Intent and reality are often quite different, in my experience," says Lucifer. "What is it they say of Hell and good intentions?"

"Lucifer," Chloe says, "I'm fine. Really."

He puts his hand on her shoulder. "It's quite all right, Detective."

"But—"

"Well?" He directs an oily grin at Ms. Kim, his eyebrows raised as he peers at her.

"Just … um …." Ms. Kim clears her throat, taking a moment to swipe a loose, wispy strand of hair from her eyes. "Well, you … you fall backward."

He stills. "Pardon?"

"Fall backward?" Ms. Kim repeats weakly before rushing to add, "I mean … you don't have to."

His eyes narrow. "For what purpose?"

"Well, your teammates will catch you to prove that they have your back, both literally and figuratively. It's …." She laughs awkwardly. "I suppose it's a little stupid. Honestly, I wish I was having a mojito on the beach right now. That's what I really want." Her face flames red. "I mean …!" She fidgets. "Oh, Jesus Christ—" Lucifer's lip twitches with the beginnings of a snarl. "—I don't know what I mean." She claps her hand to her mouth. "And I seem to still be talking!"

The silence stretches.

"I … see," Lucifer says.

"Don't worry!" Ella chirps, stepping in front of the group. "We'll catch you!"

She elbows Dan in the ribs, and Dan says, "Yeah. Yeah, man."

"Totally zero chance of falling on your ass!" Ella beams. "We promise!"

Lucifer is silent. Still. Chloe presses closer, giving his forearm a subtle squeeze. "You okay?"

He bristles, shaking her off, as his gaze shifts to Ms. Kim. "This is the most bloody ridiculous thing I've ever heard of, and I've been around for millennia. Team building? Really? More like team quashing. Forcing good, always-upstanding officers like Detective Decker, and even Formerly Douchey Daniel—"

"Hey!" interjects Dan.

"Well, I did say formerly," Lucifer clarifies, refusing to be derailed, "and good on you, Detective Espinoza, for achieving meaningful personality reform." Dan scowls. "But really. Forcing them and Ms. Lopez to take falls of faith when the majority of the catcher's-mitt crowd is on the bloody take?"

Kasinski makes an odd choking noise.

"Whose are you, anyway?" Lucifer adds, looking inquiringly at Kasinski. "The Crips's?"

"Hey, fuck you, man," Ed Myers chimes in. "That's uncalled for."

"Yeah, are you  _trying_ to make us drop you?" Kasinski snaps.

"I just do what they pay me for," Ms. Kim wails.

"Right, then." Lucifer turns and squares his shoulders. "A fall of faith, it is."

"Good luck with that," Detective Chow chimes in, rolling his eyes. "Beelzebub."

"I fancy Old Scratch if we're to be using nicknames," Lucifer calls over his shoulder. "Do you prefer prat or pillock?"

And, now, Detective Chow is scowling, too.

Since it's clear Lucifer has just finished alienating  _everyone_ , Chloe rushes to join Ella and Dan, ready to break Lucifer's inevitable descent toward the carpet. Between the three of them, he shouldn't be too heavy. Dan is pretty ripped and could probably catch Lucifer by himself, come to think of it.

But Lucifer doesn't move.

"Um," says Ella. "Any time, now, buddy. We're good back here."

He stares into space, gaze fixating on a distant point where the ceiling of the auditorium meets the wall over the door. His jaw bulges as he grinds his jaw.

"Lucifer?" Chloe adds softly.

He scoffs, "This is bloody ridiculous," again.

And faster than anyone can blink, he's gone in a puff of air.

* * *

Everyone at work is singularly bemused about Lucifer's disappearance — no, his  _dematerialization_  — but it only takes a few minutes for the explanations to tumble in. Lucifer didn't poof out of existence, they say. He distracted everybody with his undeserved mudslinging, of course, and slipped out while the conversational flash bangs exploded.

Right.

Exactly.

And Chloe can't stop cringing, because she realizes this exact thing has happened before, complete with mudslinging.  _Oh, you don't know that,_ Lucifer taunted years ago, in response to her reminding the rookie uni standing beside her that Lucifer was unarmed.  _Maybe, I have a gun!_ Do  _it!_ Then he poofed just as the uni's gun went off. And she was one of the ones trying to rationalize the inexplicable.

The one good side effect of Lucifer's dazzlingly devilish departure is that Ms. Kim quickly calls everybody back into the auditorium for a too-bubbly, "What did we learn?" discussion, thus letting Chloe off the hook from scrutiny.

* * *

"Something's eating at him," Chloe says as a car swishes by Linda's office window. "Something about his fall. But I don't know if this is like a minor preoccupation that will pass again, or … or a general phobia, or … P.T.S.D., or …." She gives Linda a helpless look. "I don't know what to do."

Linda nods, taking a sip from her steaming coffee mug. "Generally, what I recommend for spouses of—"

" _Spouses_?" Chloe blurts as her heartbeat kicks up a notch.

"Significant others," Linda quickly amends. "Sorry. Brain jumped ahead. Waaay ahead." Her smile is almost a grimace, and her awkward laugh is forced through clenched teeth. "I guess I ship Chlucifer?"

"Discounting deals with specific Candy-shaped goals in mind," Chloe replies weakly, "I … really don't get the impression Lucifer is the marrying type."

"Probably not," agrees Linda.

Chloe shifts on the couch, cushions squeaking as her weight redistributes. "And we're like … light years away from that, anyway. He can't even say the L word, yet." She takes a quick, disturbed breath and blows it out. "Plus, I'm not even sure  _I_ want to get married again. That's like—" She wilts. "—a lot of—" Her gulp is audible. "—commitment?" To the Devil. "I mean, I'm still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my boyfr—" She trips on the word. Boyfriend. It doesn't sound right, and yet, that's what he is, isn't he? Her boyfriend? The Devil is her boyfriend. She has a boyfriend. Who is the Devil. "—That he's got  _feathers_."

"No, you're right," Linda says.

"Also, literally, there's  _God. God_ is the potential in-law here." Chloe blinks, struck dumb all over again. She hadn't even thought about …. " _God,_ Linda."

"No, you're right," Linda repeats, nodding with exaggeration. Her hair flashes gold in the late-afternoon sunlight. "You're absolutely right." She makes a face. "Slip of the tongue. Honest. Aren't they pretty, though?"

Chloe blinks again. "What are?"

"The feathers."

"Well … yeah?" Very.

Shaking her head, Linda sets her coffee mug onto the end table by her chair with a quiet thunk. "Sorry. Sorry, got off track again." She gives herself an animated shake and sets her shoulders, making a show of resting her pen against her steno pad. "I still have whoa moments, too, even after more than a year."

"You do?"

Linda nods.

"Is it bad that that makes me feel better?" Chloe says, relaxing somewhat. "I thought maybe I was slow."

"No," Linda says with a soft laugh. "Not at all slow. In fact, I'd stick you up in the light speed category as far as coping goes. It's been, what … barely a few months since you found out?"

"Yeah." Chloe closes her eyes. She can still see Lucifer's Hell-seared face in her mind's eye. When he was crouched over Pier—Cain's body. Will he ever show her that aspect of himself again? Does she want him to? She shudders before looking back at Linda. "I … yeah."

"In that respect, I'd say just keep doing what you're doing."

"Okay."

"But winding back around to the first issue," Linda says, tapping her pen on her notepad as she considers. "Generally, what I recommend for  _significant others_ of people suffering from P.T.S.D. is … just be there."

"Be there," Chloe parrots.

Another nod. "Be there. Spend time with him. Even if it's just to be in the same room while he's doing something else. He'll open up if and when he's ready. The key is not to push. Let him cope at his own pace. Support, but don't smother."

Chloe winces. "I really don't like the idea of breaching his personal space when he's sending such clear keep-away signals. He won't even pick up the phone right now."

"The key is to recognize the difference between  _physical_  space," Linda notes, gesturing with splayed palms as she crosses her legs, "and  _emotional space_ , and then determine what he's actually asking you for." She peers at Chloe expectantly. "Sometimes, people demand physical space when all they  _really_  want …."

"But I don't push the emotional stuff!" Chloe insists. "I just ask him if he wants to talk, and if he doesn't, then we don't." Simple.

"And for most people, that might very well be fine," Linda says, nodding. "But some need an even lighter hand than others. And on top of that, Lucifer is very … emotionally inexperienced. He doesn't have the same mental toolbox you and I do, yet."

"But what does  _that_ mean?"

"What do  _you_  think it means?"

Chloe shrugs, clenching her fists. "I … don't know?"

"Could he perhaps feel pressured?" Linda prods gently.

"But … but  _why_?"

"Well, you're putting him in a position where he has to say no to you, aren't you? No, he's not okay? No, he doesn't want to talk?"

Oh. Oh, shit. Epiphany is a sinking ship, pulling her under the water, into the depths to drown. "And he's still struggling with the idea that he doesn't have to justify his inclusion in my life. That … his desires matter as much as mine do."

"Exactly," Linda says with a nod.

Chloe presses her face into her hands. At least, Dan has Trixie tonight, so Chloe can take some immediate steps to rectify the situation. "Just be there. I get it, now." The idea seems so stupidly obvious, in retrospect.

"Hey, that's what I'm here for. To help you come to these realizations."

"So, is this your go-to advice for  _everything_?" she says wryly. "Spend time together?"

"For couples? Pretty much." Linda shrugs, smiling. "As a first recommendation, anyway. Plus, I imagine it's still apt advice for  _you._ How are  _you_  doing?"

"I'm … fine." Not exactly.

"Still having nightmares?" Linda prods, reading right through the lines.

"Not when he sleeps with me." Chloe coughs. "I mean …  _sleep_  sleeps, not—"

"I got it." Linda's grin is wan.

"But." Chloe blushes as she flops back against the couch with a sigh. "Yeah." She's had too many nightmares to count. "What a perfectly damaged pair we make, huh?"

Linda winks. "Time together. It helps. I promise."

* * *

Lux's evening is already in full decadent swing by the time she arrives with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She parks in the small private garage behind the building, but instead of taking the back exit, opts to swing around front. The bouncer, Damian, smiles and steps aside without so much as a surprised blink at her luggage.

"Ms. Decker," the man says. "Have a nice evening, ma'am."

"Thanks!" she says, beaming back at him as she moves past the cordon, much to the chagrin of the glitzy partygoers forming a line so long it winds around the block.

A blast of cold air hits her in the face as she steps through the front doors of Lucifer's bustling club. The unmistakable sound of his Steinway fills her ears and her chest as his voice rises into the rafters to belt, "The show must go on. Inside my heart is breaking. My makeup may be flaking. But my smile ... still stays on."

She wavers a bit at the top of the steps as he comes into view, and the sweltering press of bodies replaces the initial burst of cool from the air conditioner. Lucifer's hair is falling down over his forehead. He's slouched over the keyboard, slamming his weight into the piano keys with a sharp, staccato rhythm like he's trying to give them C.P.R. His passion is hypnotic, and he holds a full floor of revelers in a mesmerized, alcohol-hazed fugue around him.

"Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance," he continues. "Another heartache, another failed romance."

She frowns, fingers clenching around the handle of her duffel. She hopes he's singing that song because he likes it. And that it's not serving as some sort of window into his soul.

Because … yikes.

Her first urge is to gravitate his way, if only to say hello, but she pushes the urge aside. Having now glimpsed him, she lets herself be satisfied with that, and she resumes her initial plan. She skirts the edges of the upper walkway toward her goal.

* * *

It's only 9:16 p.m. when the telltale whir of the elevator ascending breaks the quiet. Low flames flicker and spiral and dance along the fake log in his fireplace. Soaking in the warmth, she sits curled against the back of his leather couch by a lit lamp, peering over the edge of her book in time to see the elevator doors trundle open. He looks suitably disheveled, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, as he leans against the wall of the car.

His empty gaze disappears with a blink.

"Det—Chloe," he stutters, straightening. "Hello."

The pages crinkle as she grips them. "Hey. Early night?"

"Most of my nights are earlier as of late," he says, looking at her intently.

Her heart trips over a beat.

He steps off the elevator and stops just inside the vast room, little wrinkles appearing above his nose as his eyebrows knit together. "I … didn't realize you'd stopped by."

"I didn't want to interrupt your set. You seemed like you were pretty engrossed."

"Then … what …?" His perplexed expression deepens.

She raises her eyebrows. "Yeah?"

With a bemused shake of his head, he reanimates and glides toward his bar. "Drink?"

The couch squeaks as she shifts, curling her legs underneath her. She flips the page. "No, thanks."

She reads a few more paragraphs without absorbing a single word. A glass clinks on the countertop. Liquid sloshes into said glass. He takes a generous gulp of whatever he's poured himself.

"So … ah … what  _are_ you doing here?" he asks at last.

She looks over the top edge of her book again. His jacket is hanging off one of the stools at his bar, and he rests against the countertop with his hip. "Reading on your couch?" she says. "I've been on a reading kick since  _Class of 3001_."

His gaze drops from her face to the book clutched in her hand. " _The Hunger Games_?" he scoffs. "Really?

She grins. "Figured I'd start with the zeitgeist stuff."

"Hmm."

The wrinkles above his nose have not abated, only deepened. He takes another gulping sip of his — from the warm amber color — what-appears-to-be scotch. His attention wanders to the entryway of his bedroom. To the duffel bag she left gaping open on his bedspread, clothing hanging out like guts. To her shoes, which she left tucked on the floor next to his nightstand. Back to her, sitting in the living room area. He fidgets with the top button of his waistcoat, his onyx ring glinting in the firelight.

She bites her lip. "It's okay that I'm here, right?"

"I did say you've an open invitation."

"You did," she says with a nod. "But you're also not answering my question."

He looses a blustery little breath. "Yes, darling," he confirms with a ghost of a smile fleeting across his face. "It's quite all right that you're here."

Whew. Okay. She can't conceal her relieved slump. So, Linda may have been right about the physical versus emotional space thing.

"It's only that …." He trails to a halt again, watching her from the safety of his bar, shifting from foot to foot in uncharacteristic indecisiveness. "Well, I …."

"Yeah?" she prods.

His eyes narrow like he's trying to solve a complex calculus problem. "Would you like me to make you dinner?"

"Nope, I'm good, thanks. Just wanted your couch." She grins at him. "And to be near you."

The skin around his left eye twitches, and then he just … stands there. Staring. Like he blue-screened-of-death. Like he can't fathom her wanting to be here just to be here, without any expectations of interaction with him.

"I was … planning to stand on the balcony for a while," he manages.

"Well, that's fine," she replies with an easy shrug. She scrunches her toes, crinkling up her socks, and makes a show of snuggling against his couch cushion. "You can do that. Don't mind me. I'm enjoying my book."

The lost look on his face doesn't abate.

"You're certain you don't desire a drink?" he says.

"Positive. Go watch your …."  _Babies_ , she was going to say. Holy shit. She resists the urge to clap her book against her mouth. "I mean, go stargaze." She waves her book awkwardly at his terrace to vent her need to flail. "Don't let me interrupt your plans."

He stares at her for another long moment. Two. Three. With a suspicious look, he takes his over-full tumbler and prowls to the sliding doors. Peering at her the whole while instead of paying attention to where he's going, he slides the door open along the track, and then he steps outside, though he doesn't close the door behind himself.

A cool breeze blows into the room. The distant sound of traffic floats up from the street below. Several more moments stretch into infinity. With another confused shake of his head, he takes a sip of his maybe-scotch, and turns to face the glowing nighttime skyline.

The minutes pass like turtles sprinting backward. She reads and rereads the same paragraph again and again and again. She's almost starting to make sense of the words blurring across the page when she hears him sigh. As she looks up, he finally relaxes, leaning his elbows and lanky body against the balcony railing.

His lucid white wings spill out behind him and then spread. He stretches them to the ends of his terrace, about fifteen feet in either direction, rolling his neck and shoulders like he's been dying to unfurl all day. His gaze tips upward. The moonlight laves his sharp edges with a silver hue.

Her boyfriend.

The Devil.

With the pretty feathers.

What interesting directions life can sometimes take.

A soft, amused snort tumbles from her lips. Then she redirects her attention to her book.

And then she's back with Katniss and Peeta in the dystopian world of Panem, far, far away.

* * *

The clock reads 9:58 p.m. when she's tugged back into the warmth of his penthouse by the sight of him sitting down beside her. His suit is gone, replaced by a black silk robe, and he smells faintly of smoke. He clutches a worn, well-loved hardback. "Pride and" are the words she can make out on the spine. His fingers conceal the rest.

"Do you still have plans with the offspring this weekend?" he says, settling.

"Yeah, did you wanna come?" He opens his mouth to reply, a gleam in his eye, and she rushes to add, "Along? I mean come along?"

With a snicker and a wink, he scoffs softly, "Of course not."

"Okay. No pressure."

She scoots into the bubble of space around his body that he fills up with heat like a radiator. He lifts his arm, and she leans against him. He turns his book to a worn, sepia-tone-looking page somewhere in the middle and strokes the margin almost lovingly. Flipping the page in her own book, she leaves him to his love affair in peace.

"Perhaps, I might," he amends hesitantly, the words rumbling through his breastbone, just as she's starting to drift toward Panem again.

She looks up at him. "Trixie would love it."

"Would  _you_?"

"Of course, I would. The more important question, though, is … would  _you_?"

To which he has no immediate answer except to sigh, shift underneath her in an agitated fashion, and flip the page in his book.

She kisses his silk-covered arm. "We leave at 9," she tells him. "Spend your Saturday how you want to, okay? I'll be happy regardless. I promise."

"I'll … consider my options."

* * *

At 11:39 p.m. the world is tilting backward. Except it's not the world. It's her. She mutters something unintelligible, to which he replies, "Shh, darling, you fell asleep." She snuggles against his soft lapel as he carries her to his bed. And then she's warm and cocooned, and everything goes away again.

* * *

At 6:42 a.m., she wakes to the familiar scent of frying bacon. Her rumbling stomach pulls her up from torpor, and she slides across Lucifer's sheets. Squinting, she sits up. The old hardback book he'd been reading the night before is perched on his nightstand, cracked open to the end, where, after the closing sentence, the page reads in delicate, faded, handwritten script, "To the real Mr. Darcy. With deepest regards, Jane."

A surprised laugh, not born from hilarity so much as surprise, barks out of her. And then she's not even surprised, anymore. Only deeply amused.

Her boyfriend.

With the feathers.

Who was alive when horses still drew carriages as a main form of transportation, not novelty, and it was a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. She can only imagine how hard Lucifer balked at  _that_ idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Jane Austen for that line there at the end :)


	4. This Isn't Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everybody :) I'm glad you're enjoying this so far! Chapter title credit goes to MS MR.

The clack-clack-clack as the roller coaster climbs the hulking hill is audible from the ground, and Trixie looks up at the giant track, her mouth forming a pink, perfectly rounded little "o." For the first time, she's tall enough to go on all the rides, and she's been eyeballing the Twisted Colossus since they arrived.

Chloe can't help but feel a little bubble of excitement in her gut, too. She loves thrill rides. And Dan always hated them. She hasn't ridden a roller coaster in years. The heady prospect of having a built-in riding companion for the next few years makes it hard to stop smiling at odd intervals.

Or ….

She glances at Lucifer. Maybe,  _two_  built-in companions?

Okay, maybe  _not_.

As a young twenty-something couple pushes past them to hop into line, Trixie wraps her spindly arms around the painted fence posts. With pleading eyes, she tips backward to peer up at Lucifer. He doesn't seem to notice her watching him as the roller coaster crests the hill. The clack-clack-clack of ascending cars becomes a raucous roar of descent, coupled with joyous exultations in the shapes of screams.

His face is blank.

Something in his eyes seems to break like glass, though, and he looks away with an inhumanly fast leftward snap of his neck.

"No," he says, tone flat and distant.

Trixie pouts. "Please?"

"No."

"Pleeeeease?" Trixie whines, hanging off the fence like a monkey. "You can have my funnel cake, later."

"Spawn, I said  _no_."

"But—"

"C'mon, babe," Chloe gently scolds, stepping between them. "We'll go together, just us two, yeah?"

A sigh blusters from Trixie's lips as she slumps. "O … kay," she says in a tone that reminds Chloe of Eeyore.

Chloe smiles at Lucifer as she shepherds Trixie toward the entrance. He showed up that morning promptly at 9, dressed for once not in a suit but in black jeans and a leather coat. His ensemble seems out of place in the late-summer heat. Though, less out of place than a $10,000 suit at a theme park, at least. A glittery purple butterfly flitting along the arc of a rainbow graces his cheek and the left side of his forehead, thanks to their morning face-painting session, and just a hint of cotton-candy fuzz remains stuck to the sharp, stubbly cleft of his chin.

"Meet you at the exit?" she says, nodding toward the opening down the fence line, where a steady stream of windblown, wide-eyed riders stumbles back into the meandering crowd.

"I …." He grinds his teeth like he's frustrated. "Yes. I'm …." More grinding. He gives the coaster another troubled glance. With the next set of screams, though, he can't seem to look away fast enough, and he shakes himself like he thinks he's got spiders skittering down his limbs. "A-apologies."

"Hey, don't apologize," Chloe says, leaning closer to kiss him. "She'll live. This is supposed to be fun."

His eyes close for a moment, and he takes a breath, like he's fortifying himself, or—

She looses a surprised squeak when his arm snakes around her, low and strong across her back, and he kisses her in return. He tastes of cotton candy and powdered sugar and heat.

"I admit," he murmurs against her lips, "I normally partake in parks such as this to watch the thrilled, not experience the so-called thrills, but …."

"… But?"

His eyes crinkle around the edges. "But … I  _am_  … having  _fun_."

A grin twitches at the corners of her lips, and a floaty feeling fills her to the brim. She opens her mouth to reply when Trixie tugs on her arm. "Mommy, come  _on!_ "

"Right, right," Chloe says, laughing. She waves to Lucifer. "See you in a few!"

* * *

"He didn't wanna go," Trixie laments as they wind through the serpentine array of cordons.

"It's not you," Chloe assures her. "It's just that not everybody likes roller coasters. And it's not nice to pressure people into doing things that make them feel uncomfortable. No means no."

Trixie frowns. "Roller coasters make Lucifer uncomfortable?"

"I think so," Chloe replies, squeezing Trixie's shoulders. "But, hey, he did face painting with you. And he got us that cotton candy. And he took us to the arcade. So, that was all fun, right?"

"I thought he would make a deal with me."

"I know you did. It's okay. Just … be happy he came with us today, and leave it at that, yeah?"

Trixie looks back over her shoulder. "I  _am_  happy he came with us, Mommy." Her expression grows pensive. "What rides does Lucifer like?"

Chloe frowns. What rides  _does_ Lucifer like? They hadn't gone on any rides, yet. They ….

Shit.

She realizes belatedly that Lucifer had been subtly herding them away from the crazy roller coasters all morning.

Of course, he must have bad associations with his fall.

 _Shit_ , why didn't she think of that?

She's certain, based on his top-floor penthouse and the joy he takes in flying, that he doesn't have an issue with heights. But lack of control? Immobilizing restraints? Sudden drops? All of those seem like potential trigger sources, and roller coasters are a horrible confluence of all three.

"Mommy?" Trixie prods.

"I'm thinking, babe."

Trixie stands with her back pasted against Chloe's front as they wait for the front seat of the front coaster car. Chloe rests her hands on Trixie's shoulders. Fidgeting, she runs her tongue along her lower lip. Single-elevation thrills that require his active input and only have light-handed or no restraints might work for him. The carousel? Go-karts? Or ….

She snaps her fingers. "I bet you he'd  _love_  bumper cars."

"Can I ask him?" Trixie says.

"Sure, you can," Chloe replies with a nod. "But if he says no this time, you—"

"Leave him alone."

"Right." Another nod. "Just leave him be."

"Okay, Mommy." An empty train rolls into the station, and the last pair of riders waiting in front of them hop in. Trixie's eyes light up. "We're next!"

"We are!" Chloe says, grinning. She gives a giggling Trixie a kiss. "And have I told you that roller coasters are my favorite?"

* * *

Lucifer  _loves_ bumper cars, but even his nefariously devilish driving skills make no allowances for conniving, tactically-minded nine-year-olds.

"How the bloody hell did you get behind me?" he exclaims as Trixie's blue bumper car smashes into the rear of his green one. Which in turn knocks the front of his car into the side of Chloe's, his bumper screeching along the scratched red paint of her battered vehicle.

The impact throws her against her seatbelt, and she whoops in surprised delight. "Hey!"

Trixie twists her steering wheel to the right, pinning the both of them against the wall, unable to escape.

"You devious little minx, you!" Lucifer crows through gritted teeth.

Trixie is laughing and laughing — shrieking almost — and Lucifer's eyes gleam with barely restrained delight as he fights to regain control of his car.

"I'm gonna get you!" Chloe warns, laughing, too.

"Who, me?" Lucifer says.

Chloe jabs her thumb at her devious daughter. "No,  _her_!"

They share a look. Understanding passes between them. They both crank their steering wheels to the left, jackknifing free, only to miss entirely as Trixie zips away, giggle-shrieking like a fiend. Balmy air whips against Chloe's face as she and Lucifer both fall into hot pursuit.

In that moment, the world seems to slow down, compressing into a perfect memory.

Her beautiful daughter and her morning star.

A weird little family if ever there was one, but sublime nonetheless.

She doesn't even notice the text from work until after their fourth glee-filled round of bonding through bashing.

 _We think we IDed your guy_ , it says.  _Check in with Missing Persons when you get a chance._

* * *

Thomas C. Widow, 34, U.C.L.A. graduate with a Master of Science in Biochemistry and a Bachelor of Science in Biology, was reported missing by his sister on Friday. Unfortunately, the sister talked with the missing persons department in another precinct, and the various arms of the L.A.P.D. had taken a while to coordinate.

Chloe sighs as she flips through the sparse case folder, the top page of which consists of her freshly-signed search warrant. The detectives previously assigned to the investigation left very little for her to work with. They knocked on the door of Mr. Widow's home in Elysian Park — no answer — and they asked around at his place of work — a small taco shop on Sunset Blvd. Beyond that, they didn't make much investigative headway before noticing Chloe's B.O.L.O. in the system.

Overworked, they handed their meager case notes over to Homicide without so much as a cross look. Luckily, what little Chloe and Co. know about their falling victim, versus what little Missing Persons had ferreted out about Mr. Widow, matches up perfectly, to include relative time of disappearance. A judge had been willing without hesitation to sign a search warrant for Mr. Widow's home.

"How terribly sad," Lucifer muses over the roar of the wind as they cruise down Sunset.

She brushes a loose piece of hair out of her eyes, but the wind sticks it to her lips, instead. Spitting it away, she says, "What's sad?"

"If Mr. Widow is indeed our victim, that means nobody noticed he was missing for more than five bloody days."

Chloe nods, tipping her head back against the Corvette's seat. The sky is a deep blue, broken only by the white wisps of cirrus clouds and icy contrails far above. Sunshine radiates against her face. "Unfortunately. It happens with recluses a lot."

Lucifer's fingers tighten against the steering wheel. "I suppose I can somewhat relate, though I'd never considered myself a recluse before." He reaches to downshift into third gear as a car pulls in front of him. "Not on Earth, anyway."

Frowning, she sets the case folder aside, into the gap between the seat and the car door, protecting it from the wind, and then tips her head to look at him. The sunshine frames his body with molten-looking lines, and despite copious shellac-like product, even he has a few strands of flyaway hair, thanks to the relentless breeze.

"That wouldn't happen again, you know," she says.

His mouth forms a grim line. "Hmm?"

She reaches across the gearbox to touch his arm. His suit jacket is soft under her thumb. "I'd notice if you were gone."

The edges of his lips twitch. "Would you, now?"

She nods, giving him a squeeze. His cufflink juts against her palm. "I would. Twenty-four hours or less. I guarantee it."

"You didn't before," he says warily, not taking his eyes from the road.

"Well, we had a few more boundaries back then, yeah?"

" _I_  didn't have any bloody boundaries."

"Well,  _I_  did," she counters with a shrug. "And, at the time, my not-at-all-literally-Satan  _coworker_ disappearing off the face of the universe for short stints wasn't exactly unusual."

The Corvette rumbles as he accelerates, shifting back into fourth gear.

"Touché," he admits, almost inaudible.

They ride in comfortable silence, with nothing surrounding them but the whipping wind and the roar of traffic. Minutes later, when he turns onto Everett, he glances at her out of the corner of his eye, adding, "But you would notice, now?"

The hope in his tone makes her heart constrict. "Yes, Lucifer." She squeezes his forearm again. "I would definitely notice."

* * *

Mr. Widow lived in a small single-story detached house, neither dilapidated nor glamorous. Dandelions and clovers push through the cracks comprising the slatted concrete driveway. The house itself, which rests under the shade of a huge eucalyptus tree, is a pinkish-cream color with reddish-brown trim. Elaborate metal latticework in the shape of  _fleurs-de-lis_  covers the front windows, along with a wrought-iron security door sporting similar latticework to complete the ensemble.

"Looks more like a fancy prison than a dwelling," Lucifer observes, frowning, as he rolls the Vette to a stop in the narrow driveway. Chloe glances down the street, noting every house is similarly outfitted with bars.

"Is there anyone inside?" she asks as they approach the door.

He cocks his head and listens. "Hmm, no. Not human. Something small, though. A pet, I think."

"Landshark?"

"No, not a dog."

Nodding, she leaves her gun in her hip holster. Just in case, she rings the bell and knocks loudly enough to shake the security door. "Mr. Widow?" she calls. "L.A.P.D. here for a wellness check. Are you all right, sir?"

The house remains silent. "Still nothing," Lucifer adds.

She looks around, checking underneath the doormat for a spare key, but finds nothing. She runs her fingers over the top of the doorframe. Also nothing. After gesturing for Lucifer to stay put, she does a quick walkabout, passing through the wooden gate into a tiny weed-filled backyard. All of the windows are barred and locked. So is the back door. She doesn't find a key under the back doormat, either. Nor does she locate any unusual-looking rocks with a key stored underneath. She jogs back to the front stoop, where Lucifer is leaning gracefully against the railing.

"Anything useful?" he says.

"Not a thing." She doesn't want to use the ram if she doesn't have to, so she gives him a hopeful look. "Can you get us in, or do I need to call a locksmith?"

Lucifer tilts his head, peering at her with dark, fathomless eyes.

"What?" she says.

"Nothing, really." He straightens as he steps away from the railing, offering her a grin that shows teeth. "I think I quite like this new rapport we have. Me having unusual skills. You utilizing them. Though, I suppose it's no surprise."

She shrugs. "That's what partners do, right?"

His smile deepens before he turns to the door. Placing his palm against the lock, he closes his eyes, inhaling. Searing light flashes between the gaps in his fingers, making her squint, but she doesn't look away. The lock thunks as it disengages. The security door screeches on its hinges as he pulls it gently open.

"So, you  _do_ zap them open," she confirms. "That is …  _really_  cool."

His smile returns, bright like a sunrise on his face.

"How many times have you done that when I wasn't looking?" she asks. "Popped open a lock, I mean."

A guffaw tumbles from his lips, and then he clucks his tongue. "Come, now, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

"Seriously, how many?"

"Not many." His eyes gleam with mischief. "I quite enjoy watching you kick down doors."

"Are there locks you can't get through?"

His smile drips away. "There was one."

"One?"

"It was a meat freezer," he says with a disgruntled sniff. "Pillock warded the whole bloody thing. Quite frustrating." He frowns. "Disorienting, really."

"When was …?"

"When the fake Sinnerman had me."

She bites her lip. "Oh."

"I quite dislike being restrained. Or contained."

A flash of him writhing on the ground in full-blown panic sears her mind's eye. "I know."

He waves his hand dismissively. "Obviously, the situation resolved itself well enough in the end." He steps closer to the threshold, leaning forward with his arm outstretched. After another quick-but-searing light show, the interior door lock disengages. He turns the handle with his free hand, giving the door a subsequent tap, and it yaws open with a moan. "Now, shall we?" he says, gesturing inside.

The feel of his palm at the small of her back makes her smile.

The Devil is literally her backup.

The Devil, who isn't just  _letting_  her take the lead.

He seems to revel in it.

* * *

They aren't even two steps inside the doorway when a gray tabby with a white nose and white paws arrives in the foyer with a demure little mew, its capped claws tapping on the hardwood floors as it advances. Looking up at Lucifer and Chloe with green eyes, its tail kinks to the left and then the right, twitching. Then it seems to decide that everything checks out, and it marches brazenly closer. Meowing raspily, it winds around Chloe's and Lucifer's legs in a slow, sinuous march.

Lucifer nudges the cat away with his ankle. "Sss," he hisses at it. "Away with you, you beastly thing."

The cat doesn't listen, returning to rub and purr and rub and purr against his leg, leaving behind a swath of gray fluff against his charcoal suit. He drives the cat away again, this time a bit less gently, and again it returns.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, scowling as he looks down at the little creature. "I  _hate_ cats."

Chloe laughs. "It's probably just hungry."

Despite the importance of the search warrant, Chloe checks the kitchen first to confirm, at least, that the cat has water. It does. A sealed tupperware container full of kibble rests along the back of the countertop by the lightswitch. A singular brownish crumb marks the bottom of the empty auto-feeder beside the water dish. Taking the tupperware container, Chloe dumps fresh kibble for the hungry cat. The cat settles next to the feeder and takes scarfing, ravenous swallows.

"I don't suppose you can tell me what happened to your owner?" Chloe says, giving the cat a little scritch behind the ears. The cat, however, seems too invested in restoring calories to offer assistance with the investigation. Chloe makes an internal note to call Animal Control when they're done.

She rises from her haunches to explore the house, which consists of a single bedroom, a single bathroom, an office, a small living area, a tiny alcove at the end of the hall for the washer and dryer, and a joint kitchen and dining area. A single place setting — marked by a placemat embroidered with dancing Kokopellis — adorns the dining room table. Bright angular shapes and lines decorate the fine china stored in the small cabinet in the corner. The napkins are a sanguine maroon color, which pops with the interior cream color of the walls.

She wanders across creaking floorboards into the cozy den/living-room area. A white flokati covers the oak flooring in this room. A woven red, black, and white canvas covered in geometric-looking birds hangs on the wall over the couch. A stack of mail competing for Leaning Tower of Pisa rests on the end-table. She leafs through the envelopes but finds only junk and a few utility bills. Lucifer stands by the stereo in the corner, framed by a barred bath of dappled sunlight. His broad shoulders block her view.

"What are you looking at?" she says.

He steps to the side, revealing ….

"O … kay," Chloe says, "did not expect that, given the rest of the décor so far."

Next to his sound system, Mr. Widow has a veritable shrine to Queen. C.D.s. Old L.P.s. Posters. Other memorabilia. In the center of the shrine on the wall is a slip of white paper set in a gold frame. Messy pen scribbles — a handwritten note? — adorn the paper. The bottom of the page is signed by four distinct signatures, but the handwriting of the note matches only one, which starts with an F.

"Assuming this is authentic," Lucifer muses, "this is worth quite the pretty penny today, I believe." He strokes the frame, adding in a warm, wistful tone, "Freddie was a good chap." He looks down at her with a sad expression. "You humans are such bright, brief flashes of light in the universe. I'm not certain I'll ever get used to it."

A hurting lump forms in her throat at the pointed weight in his tone. She's not sure what to say to that. What must that be like to know for a fact you'll live to see everyone and everything around you … end? The idea that he's willing to love her in light of that — that he's willing to love Dan, and Ella, and Linda, and Trixie, and  _everyone_  — even if he can't call the emotion love, yet ….

Lucifer clears his throat, looking away. "You know, I helped him with the lyrics for—"

"Wait," she croaks with a blink as the rest of the conversation catches up with her. "Wait, wait." She's only too happy to be distracted, anyway. "Freddie?" Another blink. "As in Freddie Mercury?"

"Which Freddie did you think I meant?"

"Okay, for real," she says, staring incredulously up at him, "how many celebrities and historical figures have you known?"

"Oh, too many to count."

She folds her arms. "Name five you haven't mentioned, yet, other than Hitler and Jane Austen."

He frowns. "When did I tell you of Ms. Austen?"

"Saw the note she left in your book."

"And Hitler?"

"Linda."

"Ah." A pause follows as he considers. "Well ... there was Will. Shakespeare, I mean."

"You knew Shakespeare well enough to call him Will?" she says, almost a squeak.

Lucifer nods, rubbing his thumb along his chin. "I was the script doctor for  _Hamlet_ , to borrow a modern term."

Her jaw falls open.

"Jagger, of course," he continues. "Who do you think  _that_  song is about, after all? Ms. Angelou. Joan."

Chloe frowns. "Joan, who?"

"Of Arc, darling," he says with a tinge of humor. "And … let's see." He thinks. "Oh. Jesus—"

"But you said Jesus wasn't real!"

"I said Jesus was no son of God, darling," he replies patiently. "I said nothing of his existence."

"Nooo," she counters, "you  _said_  Jesus was  _entirely_  human myth."

"Yes, well, I meant Jesus  _Christ_ ," he replies with a huffy sigh. "Not Jesus as in of Nazareth. The latter was a very real man — whom I owed, actually — and whom, as a result, I may or may not have inadvertently elevated to … well. Never mind that."

"Never mind what!" she says, a tinge manic.

"Let's just … er. Well, let's … assume. That, perhaps … I …."

"You  _what_?"

His left eye twitches like he's developed a nervous tick. "Healed him."

"You resurrected Jesus?" she snaps. "That was  _you_?"

"Well, no, I didn't  _resurrect_ him, precisely. He wasn't quite dead when they took him down from the cross. Medicine in biblical times wasn't terribly advanced, you see." He grins nervously. "Made for quite a show when he walked out of his tomb, though, don't you think?"

"Biblical," she echoes, shaking her head. "I … what?"

"The Romans were being pompous, controlling, authoritarian little wankers," he explains in a measured tone, as if this is the most reasonable thing in the universe to be discussing. "Jesus was a good bloke who threw the  _best_ parties, and I owed him a favor. So, I fixed it. I'm sure you know the rest."

"The  _rest_? The  _rest_!? Oh, my God."

Lucifer scowls.

"I mean … not! Not … not G-G—" She takes a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose with trembling fingertips. Jesus. Christ. Literally. She takes another breath. And another. "Sorry," she rushes to say. "Sorry, I just get a little …."

He shifts from foot to foot. "It's quite all right. I understand that this is still a little … surreal for you."

"Surreal," she barks. Holy shit, surreal. "That's … sort of an understatement." Another breath. And another. And another. "Sorry. Sorry, I …. That was just." Ella and Dan would have had strokes just now. Chloe shakes her head. "So … how did you know Freddie, anyway?" she adds weakly.

Lucifer frowns at her.

"What?" she says.

He regards her for a long moment, a measured, almost disbelieving expression on his face, and she realizes he didn't expect her to move on so quickly from the Jesus thing. Or move on at all. At least, her heartbeat is subsiding from thunder to the pat-pat-pat of a distant drum.

She steps closer to him and offers him a shy, encouraging smile. "Really, I'm curious."

"We met in Manhattan," Lucifer says, a wary look on his face. "At a gay bar in the Meatpacking District."

She blinks. She'd been thinking, with his musical inclinations, that perhaps he'd gone behind the scenes at a Queen concert. "You met Freddie Mercury at a gay bar. Just … a random gay bar. Not even in Great Britain?"

"Hmm, yes," Lucifer says with a thoughtful nod. "Rather, a haven for certain specific proclivities. There was this delightful room with a bathtub in it where we—"

"Lucifer?"

His distant gaze shifts to her, memories melting away, as his eyebrows drift toward his hairline. "Yes?"

"I don't need to know that part." She shakes her head. "Let me guess. You met 'Jagger' at the grocery store in Denver or something."

"Well, not in Denver, no, but … humans do need to eat, darling."

She goggles at him. "You have the weirdest,  _coolest_  luck."

A haughty grin oozes across his face. "All part and parcel with the fact that I'm magnetic."

"I guess so," she says with a laugh.

They share a long, warm look, only for the moment to shatter with an awful gagging "hyuk hyuk hyuk" noise that begins at their feet. The tiny tabby is back, its whole body jerking with the force of its spasms.

"Dearie me," Lucifer says, "is it coughing up a lung?"

Chloe frowns. "I don't think—"

At which point, the cat leans forward and horks up every bit of kibble it must have eaten. Straight onto Lucifer's $900 shoe.

"How  _dare_ you!" he says, almost a gasp as he flinches backward. He lifts his pant leg and shakes off his foot with a disgusted grimace. "I do wish said magnetism had an off switch."

"I think there's paper towels in the kitchen."

"Ughck, it's—" He shakes his foot again, glaring at the cat. "— _warm_." He injects the word warm with the same indignance and horror he reserves for when people accuse him of unintended Dansformation.

"Mrow?" the cat says, purring like a motorboat with a pegged engine.

"Don't give me that innocent look!"

"Mrow?"

The purring continues, even as his laser glare threatens to put a smoking crater in the rug.

"I bloody  _hate_ cats!"

Chloe covers her face with her hand as he turns on his heels and stalks away.

* * *

After a brief timeout to cleanse, Lucifer stays behind to peruse the living room while she explores the bathroom and bedroom. In the medicine cabinet, she finds a half-empty bottle of paroxetine, an antidepressant, and an empty bottle of alprazolam, a benzodiazepine often prescribed for anxiety attacks. Hmm.

The bed is unmade, and in the shelter of a curl of sheets and blankets, forms a nest of gray hair. The little cat mews, hopping onto the bed.

"Is that your spot?" Chloe asks it, grinning.

The cat kneads the mattress, peering at her with sleepy green eyes, before curling up in its nest.

Chloe searches the nightstand, finding nothing but old magazines, a rusted watch, a box of tissues, and a bottle of lube. In the closet, clothes, shoes, a handgun, and a stack of board games she's never heard of: Settlers of Catan, Ticket to Ride, Seven Wonders, among others. Under the bed, though, she finds a photo album tucked away. The little cat hops down from the bed, bumping Chloe's wrists and purring.

"Lucifer," Chloe calls.

"Yes?" he says too quickly over her shoulder, and her innards drop out through her shoes. A startled squawk emerges from her throat. He catches her before she falls backward.

"Oh, my  _God_ , you really do need a bell around your neck or something."

He snickers. "Apologies, darling."

"Rowl," the cat agrees, butting its head against Lucifer's ankle.

His glare, this time, makes him look a little less like he combusted, and a little more like he's at a slow simmer on the stove. Eventually, he'll make a fine roux. With a miffed sigh, he shoves the cat away. The cat comes back. He shoves it away. The cat comes back.

With a predatory snarl that makes the hairs on Chloe's neck stand on end, he grabs the poor creature, scooping it into his arms. He stalks to the hallway, dropping it outside and slamming the door behind it.

"Rowl?" the cat says, muffled through the door. There's a thud against the wood, the sound more commensurate with a charging Godzilla than a small, possum-sized carnivore. "Rowl? Rowl? Rowl?"

Lucifer rolls his eyes and returns to the bed. With a calming breath, she points at her find. A mid-air picture of their potential victim having the time of his life. Wearing goggles and a blue flight suit, he's long and lanky and spread-eagled as he screams through an empty cerulean sky.

"Looks like Mr. Widow was a skydiver," she says, stroking the page. "Which might at least explain how he fell from a plane." Though it wouldn't explain the absence of a parachute.

Lucifer stares at the picture. She's not sure if she's imagining his pallor draining.

"Sorry," she says. She closes the photo book, tucking it away again, out of his view. "So, now, we have to figure out the company he went through." There aren't many skydiving companies in Los Angeles, though, so that shouldn't be too difficult. Dan will be helpful for that.

She rises to her feet.

"I don't …," Lucifer says, trailing away. He takes a breath. "I don't bloody understand why anyone would do that."

"Do what?"

"Jump out of a bloody plane! It's madness!"

"And it's  _fun_."

The silence stretches as he turns to her, his expression flummoxed. "You?" he splutters, eyebrows creeping upward. "You've bloody done it?"

"Sure," she says. "All the time before Trixie was born. I even had a license to go solo."

"But …." His forehead wrinkles. "Really? You?"

She pushes close, grinning. "I don't lie to you, either, y'know."

" _Why_?"

"Why don't I lie?"

"Why do you find such a reckless activity—" He gestures impotently at nothing. "— _fun_?"

Her last jump sprawls into her mind's eye. A smile tugs at her lips. "It's just … it's a thrilling—"

"—Thrilling!" he barks, incredulous.

"I just like the sensation, I guess."

"You  _guess_."

She can only shrug. She hasn't been tossed out of Heaven with no parachute and no idea where or when or if she'd land, which probably helps on the fun front. A needle-sharp pang of regret stabs through her chest. She strokes her thumbs against his wrists, trying not to imagine thick metal cuffs constricting them.

His fingers curl into fists as he watches her, though he doesn't pull away. "Our sojourn to Six Flags makes quite a lot more sense, now."

"Why did you think we went?"

He tilts his head, a graceful, leonine motion. "I attributed the insanity to your child." He smirks. "Apparently, I failed yet again to account for the wonders of heredity."

"Rawrl," agrees the cat from outside.

* * *

"This is Detective Chloe Decker," she says into the phone, rattling off her badge number. "I'm calling about a cat at 3644 Ever—" Lucifer rips the phone from her grasp and hangs it up. "—hey!"

"You're calling Animal Control!"

"Well …." She frowns. "I mean, I kind of have to. I can't just leave the cat here to starve."

"But Animal Control?" Lucifer says, almost a snarl.

"I'm sure they'll talk to the sister to see if she wants—"

"Unacceptable!"

Her frown deepens. "Lucifer …."

"You can't imprison this wretched creature for the sheer sin of having a neglectful dad."

"I … wouldn't exactly call Mr. Widow neglectful," she says slowly. "I'd … call him … dead?" Most likely, anyway. Dental records would confirm, once the sister sent them over.

"Well,  _obviously_ ," scoffs Lucifer, looking for all the world like a prissy, hissing cat himself. "But my point remains the same." He grinds his teeth, temples fluttering from the pressure of his jaws as he stares at the little gray creature at his feet. "She'll be caged and very likely killed. And while she may deserve all her toys being tossed into a shredder for that visceral stunt she pulled with my shoe, she hardly deserves death for it."

"Mew?" says the cat, looking up at them.

Chloe sighs. "What exactly are you suggesting I do, then?"

He scoops up the tiny cat, folding it underneath his suit jacket. The cat squirms and settles, its tiny white feet poking out from behind the vertical row of shiny buttons. "I'll take it," he grumbles. "Surely, one of my patrons desires a cat."

"Mew," the cat replies, muffled by his coat.

"Guh," he spits, scowling, "I bloody  _hate_  cats."

* * *

"And that's how he got a cat," Chloe says, setting down her wine glass on the coffee table.

Maze snorts. "Lucifer."

"Yep."

"Lucifer got a cat."

"Uh huh."

Maze slaps her thigh and reaches for the big bowl of popcorn by Chloe's glass. "That's almost as good as the thing with him and the goats."

"What thing?" says Ella, looking up from the D.V.D. player.

"The whole thing about the Devil and goats?"

Ella frowns. A dark-colored kaleidoscope of boxes containing all seven seasons of  _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ sit stacked on her glass tv stand's lower shelf. "Yeah, but I mean … what's good about it?"

"Amenadiel started it."

"The goat thing?" Linda asks, also frowning.

Maze nods. "He had a phase where he got all stupid righteous about humans posturing over God, so he pranked the Knights Templar. Whispered in the right ears that the Knights were worshipping Baphomet. And, of course, the Knights pushed back with a bunch of counter-propaganda. Laid the whole goat thing on Satan, instead."

Linda gapes. "Amenadiel did  _that_?"

Maze sniggers. "Hilarious, right?"

"Not," Ella grumbles as she pulls a D.V.D. out of one of the smaller boxes and sets it into the player's tray. "Reminds me of  _my_  brothers. Jerks."

"Where is Amenadiel, anyway?" Linda asks.

"Haven't seen him," Maze says with a shrug. "Doubt he's coming back this millennium."

Chloe grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Maze's lap. "Not even to visit Lucifer? Or you? Or Linda?"

The remaining mirth in Maze's expression bleeds away. "He's a daddy's boy, Decker. And, unlike Lucifer, Daddy let him back home."

"I'm sure he'll visit once he's settled," Linda asserts.

"At the very least, he'll be back once this play you're all prepping for is done," Ella chimes in as she skips back to the couch with a stack of remotes in tow.

"Yeah," Maze says. "Sure, he will." She nods at the television. "So, we marathoning or moping?"

"Marathoning!" Ella exclaims as she collapses onto the end of massive couch next to Chloe. The cushion sinks, and Chloe leans back, settling in. Linda pulls a knitted afghan over their laps. The lights flick off.

A deep male voice blasts out of Ella's massive five-point stereo system, "In every generation there is a chos—" The picture and sound pause with a low-pitched beep.

"Wait," says Ella, "so, do you guys want me to like … give you a run down of who's who and what's what, first, or …?"

"Nah," says Maze. "Let's just dive in." She shovels a handful of popcorn into her mouth. "You wanna know how grossly inaccurate it all is, or should I keep my trap shut?"

"I'm sure we all understand this is  _fictional_ , Maze," Linda says, smiling. She turns to Ella. "Let's let the story tell us what we need to know."

Ella raises her eyebrows, peering at Chloe.

Chloe snuggles under the afghan. "Yeah, let's just go. I'm curious."

"Roger that!" Ella says with a faux salute. "Diving in!"

She hits the play button. "—en one," the deep male voice continues. "She alone will stand against the vampires."


	5. Into the Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely feedback :) This chapter's title credit goes to Celledweller & Circle of Dust. Posting this early today since I'm busy tomorrow. I might be shifting my posting schedule to Saturday night & Tuesday night, just to warn you. I'm not sure, yet. Hope you enjoy this :D

He wakes up yelling. Again and again. His place. Her place. The setting doesn't seem to matter. He snaps awake, his heartrending distress choking to a bitter, rasping halt as soon as he realizes where he is. Home. With her. Not there. Wherever "there" is. Not saying anything to him, not  _asking_ him anything, is torture, but she holds her tongue, even as he stumbles out of the room to sleep on the couch.

* * *

"Dental records confirm," Ella says, sitting on the edge of Chloe's desk, clutching a fresh forensics report. "Sandbox-Paste Guy is  _definitely_  Thomas Widow." She gives the report a woeful once-over, shaking her head. "Poor guy. Overqualified taco-shop cashier takes a literal dive. I wonder if the taco-shop thing drove him to it? Stupid economy."

"We don't know for sure that this is suicide, yet," Chloe cautions.

"Right," Dan agrees with a nod. "We should interview the sister. And we need to track down the skydiving company he used for his dives."

"It's too bad we couldn't find his phone," Ella adds. "Surely, he had  _some_ friends we could question?" Her eyes widen. "Or maybe he  _didn't_ , and that's why … splat." She smashes her fist against her other palm. "That  _poor_ man."

"Ella," Chloe says.

Ella sighs. "I know, I know. Sorry."

"I could always …  _discuss_  his mental state with the prescribing psychiatrist," suggests Lucifer.

Chloe shakes her head. "Doctor-patient confidentiality extends beyond death, remember?"

"Well, that's bloody silly," says Lucifer. "He's dead. Why would he care if his secrets are exposed? And we're trying to determine the cause of his predicament, which I think would be reason enough to discard with such conventions. A murderer might be roaming free, Detective."

"Hey, I didn't make the rules. I just have to follow them."

"Yes, yes," Lucifer says tiredly. "The  _rules._ " He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, and then progresses to rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He reaches for the venti-sized cup of coffee he brought with him that morning and takes a sip.

"Dude," observes Ella, "you look  _rough_. Are you okay?"

But Lucifer waves her off, glancing at Chloe, instead. "So, shall we start working our way down your list?"

"My list?" Chloe says.

He nods. "Of skydiving companies. I'm assuming you'll want to sic me on all the managers, then? Ask them what it is they desire?" The word desire is an oily purr that oozes down her spine.

"Actually, I think I want Dan to do the questioning. We can talk to the sister, maybe, track down some friends."

Lucifer blinks. "… Why?"

"Because," Chloe says, "I don't want any of the skydivers to recognize me."

His eyes narrow. " _Why_?" he repeats in a more dangerous tone, so low and threatening that Ella and Dan shift in their seats and look away.

Chloe winces. "So, I can go undercover, if I need to."

Lucifer sets down his coffee, staring at her like a tiger preparing to pounce.

"I'm the most qualified to do it, if need be. I already know how to skydive."

"But—"

"Lucifer," she says, trying to stay calm, "it makes the most sense. Okay?"

"No," he snaps, standing up. "I won't allow it."

She snorts with indignation. "Oh, you won't allow it, will you?"

His lip curls, showing teeth, and his eyes blaze faintly red. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Her innards twist. She barely manages not to flinch backward as her hindbrain tugs on her reins.

"No," he says in a deep, dark, midnight voice, "I will not." And all at once, she can believe he ruled a Hell full of conniving, sadistic demons like Asmodeus. Who would  _dare_  defy?

"What the fuck?" says Dan.

With a shudder, she exhales, blowing out her jangling nerves through her lips. She steps closer to Lucifer, into the spiky bubble of  _I'm-the-Devil-don't-you-dare_  he's projecting. His eyes widen. She grabs his lapel, tightening her grip so he can't see her trembling fingertips, and then turns to Ella and Dan, who are both staring slack-jawed at the exchange.

"Will you," Chloe begins through clenched teeth, directing a brief grimacing glare in Lucifer's direction, " _excuse_ us, please?"

"Uh … s-sure?" says Ella, wide-eyed. "N-no problem." Nervous laughter burbles from her lips. " _Wow_ , you're good at that, Luce."

He glares at her, another quick, faint flash of fire and Hellfury condensing in his pinpoint pupils.

"—ifer," she corrects herself too quickly. "I meant Lucifer."

On that note, Chloe tugs on the Devil's coat. At first, she's yanking on an iron block in the shape of a person. But when she adds a soft, "Lucifer. Please," he uncoils, stalking after her like he planned to follow all along. Heartbeat hammering in her ears, she guides him toward the conference room, and the Devil lets himself be guided, his gargantuan presence crashing like a tsunami behind her all the while.

* * *

The bustle of the precinct decreases to a muted, distant murmur as she closes the conference room door. She trots around the edges of the room, drawing all the blinds to give them privacy. He stands uncanny-valley still by the head of the table, his hip pressed against the polished oak. Despite his lithe frame, he seems gargantuan in the tiny space as he peers at her with unblinking, almost reptilian eyes. The crimson is gone from his irises, at least, but ….

"You have to admit," she says, fidgeting nervously, "I'm pretty uniquely qualified for—"

"No," he says, the word rich and dark and quiet, yet demanding, "I do not."

"Lucifer." In the broad, sharp sunlight streaming through the venetian blinds, the wrinkles in his suit show like beacons. Dark, bruise-like bags hug his eyes. Bags, like before. Like  _before_. When he was being drained to death before her eyes. Worry constricts in her gut. "I understand if you don't want to be involved in this case, but—"

"You think I'd allow you to go alone?" he scoffs. His fingers clench around the chairback in front of him, leaving visible dents. "If you insist on flinging yourself from a bloody plane, of course, I'm bloody well getting  _involved_."

"Lucifer, you don't—"

"At least, I've a bloody parachute that will never fail."

She folds her arms. "Do you have  _any_ idea how regulated parachutes are?"

"And yet our victim still ended up in more pieces than a bloody Jenga game," he snaps, stepping away from the chair to pull his fingers through his hair. He takes a sharp, barbed, almost manic breath. Like he's almost panicking. Like he's  _been_ panicking. The awful sounds of his now-nightly terror loiter in the back of her mind.

Concern mingles with her determination, dispelling it somewhat. She steps closer. "That won't happen," she assures him gently. "I'll be fine."

"But—"

" _Lucifer_ ," she enunciates, stepping around to his front. " _Listen_  to me." She cups his face, and his hard, obsidian gaze glints as he brings it to bear on her. "That won't happen. I'll be careful. I'm  _always_  careful."

He raises his hands, clutching her wrists. "Pardon me if my confidence remains uninspired."

"Please," she says softly. "I trust you. Can't you trust me?"

"I  _do_ trust you."

"Then let me do my job, yeah?" she counters. "You can help as much or as little as you want. But I need to do this. This is  _my_  choice. And while I understand that you're upset, what you just did out there in front of Dan and Ella was so  _incredibly_  not cool. I am  _not_ your subject; I'm your partner. Got it?"

He opens his mouth to speak, but doesn't. His fingers clench. The seconds stretch. "Oh, bloody hell," he snaps, pushing away from her with a tight, upset sigh. "You're worse than Cerberus."

She frowns. "Cerberus?"

He waves dismissively. "The bloody cat."

"You named the cat?"

"You'd think she were guarding the gates of Hell with the way she's claimed my bloody sock drawer," he grumbles, shoulders hunching.

"Your … sock drawer."

"Have you any idea how poorly lint brushes actually work? It's sinful, really. The one I ordered from Amazon still leaves a thick sheen of—" His lip curls in disgust. "—fuzz."

She can't help but glance downward, but no matter the efficacy of his lint brush, he seems to have found an unscathed pair of black socks to go with his shiny Louboutins, neither of which sport any fuzz. "Isn't Cerberus a dog's name?"

"Does it  _matter_?"

His gaze heats to molten when he spots a tiny gray hair on his sleeve. His teeth clench, visibly straining as he seems to struggle not to explode into one long frustrated wail of the thwarted neat freak within. The hair smokes out of existence in a whorl of white, warm light.

A grin threatens to crack her face apart, but she tamps it. "Um. Try masking tape. Unless you  _want_  to smite everything, I mean."

He turns, quirking an eyebrow at her. "Masking tape?"

She nods. "Or any tape. Wrap it around your palm, sticky side out. It picks everything up like a champ." At his incredulous expression, heat flames across her face. "What, I had a dog when I was a kid."

He looses an irritated sniff. "They're slightly less appalling than cats, I suppose."

"Right," she says with a snicker. "Sure, they are."

They share a look.

"I …." He slumps. "I  _am_  sorry," he admits. "For …."

Her heart constricts. "Don't worry about it. Just don't let it happen again."

* * *

He mutters in another language, tossing back and forth, the force of his movements making the bed shift and creak, and the comforter rustle. His words are indecipherable, but she recognizes the kaleidoscope of sound from his use of it in the woods. Angelish. Even without translation, though, she— He moans, low-pitched and terror-filled and distressed. His wrist thwacks into her headboard. Thankfully, the padded surface absorbs most of the blow.

"Lucifer," she whispers, nudging his thigh with her knee. "Lucifer, you're dreaming again.  _Lucifer_!"

His breaths are panicked gasps. The other wrist flies up to her headboard, and he twists and squirms and writhes like he's trapped in unseen restraints.

She pinches his side, not sure what else to do. With a sharp inhalation, he rouses, blinking in the pale moonlight. At first, he seems disoriented: lost, searching. He lowers his trembling hands, gritting out another stressed word that isn't English. He grips his left wrist with his palm, rubbing it like it hurts, and clutches both hands to his chest.

"You're here with me," she assures him softly. "You're not there. You're okay."

"Chloe."

"Yeah."

Crickets fill the quiet, along with the heartwrenching sounds of his terror slowly subsiding into grief. She wants to touch him. To talk to him, now that she's grounded him back in the real. Anything that isn't just lying here listening to him dissolve. She tucks her hands underneath her belly to quell the urge, pressing her face against her pillowcase.

"I shouldn't even be  _trying_  to sleep here," he rasps, shaking his head as he pulls trembling fingers through his hair. He rolls away and rises to his feet. "I … I shouldn't …."

"Lucifer, no," Chloe insists, lifting her head. "Wait. It's o—"

But then he's gone in a whisper of shifting feathers, and he doesn't come back.

* * *

"Are you certain you didn't miss anything?" Lucifer peers across the interrogation table the next day, his dark countenance made darker by the room's ominous lighting. His face is pale, and his suit is disheveled once again — unbuttoned at the cuffs, shoulders slightly askew, shirt wrinkled. Like he missed a date with his steam press that morning. "Maybe a spot of, 'Bloody hell, why won't a meteor hit me?'" He glances at Chloe before helpfully adding, "That's called suicide ideation." He preens. "I looked it up."

Chloe resists the urge to clap her hands to her face and shake her head. "What he means is," she rushes to say, "sometimes … suicidal people don't actually seem suicidal."

"I  _know_  that!" snaps Elaine Langtry, Thomas Widow's sister. She's a slight woman, about 5'1", with straight black hair and dark eyes like storm clouds. "But I talked to Tommy just a few weeks ago, and he was gushing about his plans for a trip to Anchorage in November. Does that sound like somebody who's suicidal to you?"

"Dearie me," says Lucifer. "Why on earth would he want to go to Alaska? In  _November_?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe because he's a biologist, and there's  _nature_  there?" Elaine scowls, folding her arms. "He did his last dissertation on arctic foxes or something." Her cheeks are turning puce. "Am I allowed to request that somebody else investigate this, because you two are just—"

"We're sorry," Chloe says, shooting a glare at Lucifer. "We're  _so_  sorry. We really don't mean to be so  _insensitive_."

With a bored, put-upon sigh, Lucifer leans back in his chair, the metal creaking as his weight shifts.

Chloe counts to ten in her head. "Ms. Langtry, are you aware of any enemies your brother had? Anyone who might have wished him harm?"

"No."

"Did he have any friends we could talk to? People who might know more about his day-to-day life?"

"He didn't have friends," Elaine grumbles. "He had … online—" She waves her hand at nothing in particular. "—people."

"Online people?"

Lucifer perks up. "Oh, like on Grindr?"

"No," says Elaine, frowning. "What's Grindr?"

"A gay bar in digital form," Lucifer replies with a lecherous grin. "Lovely little place for hookups."

Elaine blinks. "Um. No," she says slowly, "he didn't use that as far as I know."

Chloe prods, "Can you tell me what you mean by online people, then?"

"Like … World of Work Craft, I think?" Elaine says, squinting at the ceiling. "He had … a clan or something? I don't know what he called it."

"World of Warcraft," Lucifer says without looking up. "And I believe you mean a guild."

"Yeah, that's it!" She snaps her French-manicured fingers. "A guild!"

"Unfortunately, we didn't find a computer or a laptop at his house," Chloe says, frowning. "Do you know where it might be?"

"No."

"Any idea what the guild name was?"

"Not really, no."

"What a font of useful information you are," Lucifer chips in. "Say, you wouldn't perchance desire a keepsake of your brother's untimely demise in fur form, would you? A small quadrupedal memoir with claws?"

"Huh?" Elaine says.

"Your brother's hellbeast. I saved it, Dad knows why." He raises his eyebrows. "Would you like it back?"

Damn it, damn it, damn it. At Elaine's blank look, Chloe interjects through gritted teeth, "He means the cat. A tabby? We don't know its name—"

"I've been calling it Cerberus," Lucifer adds.

Elaine frowns. "Isn't that a dog's name?"

His lips and nose twitch like he's fighting them, turning his querying cast into the beginnings of a snarl before he wrestles himself back into submission. "Do you desire the cat, my dear," he says, a little too appetent, "or not?"

"I'm allergic to cats."

Lucifer's hopeful expression sinks like a body in wet cement. "Pity."

"Right," Chloe says, "okay," enunciating the words syllable by syllable, "so, you've been very helpful, Ms. Langtry. We really appreciate your time. We'll keep in touch. All right?"

"Sure …."

Lucifer and Chloe watch silently as Elaine gathers up her purse and coat and shuffles out the door. "Really?" Chloe blurts as soon as the woman is out of hearing range. " _Really_? A memoir with  _claws_?"

Lucifer has the good grace to withhold another snark bomb. Instead, he makes a dismissive scoffing noise and looks away, his head following the overdramatic roll of his eyes to the right.

She closes her eyes, calling — begging? — for calm. "Look, do you want to go help Dan for this case instead of working with me?" she says, trying not to sound snippy. "You can hypnotize all the suspects to your heart's content. Would that make you feel better?"

The distant sounds of the precinct encroach from the open door. Ringing phones. Clacking keyboards. The murmur of voices. A cart rolling down the hall. An unhappy perp yelling every foul curse from A to Z.

"Were I to accompany Daniel, now, would I then be able to rejoin you later?" Lucifer asks at last, staring without expression into the one-way mirror set into the far wall. His fingers skirt the edge of the table as he fidgets. "For your … undercover endeavor?"

"No, Lucifer, you wouldn't, because then they'd know what you look like, and that kinda defeats the whole point of going undercover."

His infinitesimal nod is difficult to see in the dark room.

"So," she prods gently. "Dan, or me?"

"You, of course."

"Okay." She doesn't like the relief she feels. She slumps against her chair, cupping her face with her hands before peering over her fingertips at him. "How did you know about World of Warcraft, anyway?" What even  _is_ World of Warcraft?

"Well, I can't say I partake, but I do listen to Ms. Lopez," he says, looking up with a shrug. "Don't you?"

Chloe sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. He  _is_  really good at that. Listening. "Look. Are you okay? I get that you've been a little … on edge lately."

He frowns, fists clenching. And pointedly says nothing.

"Sorry," she says. "Sorry. I've been trying not to push. Emotional space, yeah? I'll shut up."

His frown deepens. "Emotional …?"

She shrugs. "Just something Linda suggested."

"You've been talking of me to Dr. Linda?"

Chloe tenses. "Is that not okay?"

"Well, it's only fair, I suppose." With a graceful-but-languid movement, he slides back his chair and stands. He brushes his lithe fingers down his sleeves, smoothing out his wrinkled jacket like a preening peacock, and then he offers his hand to her. She takes it, standing up. "I do … appreciate it." The words are soft, almost inaudible.

"Appreciate what?"

"The space."

She looks up at him.

His gaze softens when his eyes meet hers. "Yes, I did notice," he continues warmly, and then he shifts his point of focus to somewhere far beyond her left shoulder. "I don't ... talk of it."

It.

An ominous word if ever there was one.

"That's okay," she assures him, chest constricting. "You don't have to."

Shifting from foot to foot, he gives her a slanting half-smile that doesn't meet his eyes. "I think I'll pop outside for a smoke."

Her throat constricts, too. "Okay."

She watches him go, wishing she had any idea what else to do. Beyond his nightmares, he's been smoking like a chimney, lately. Showing up disheveled and short-tempered. Space might be the right thing for him. But it feels like what it is. Cold. Empty. Inert. Why couldn't he need for her to shoot someone, instead?

* * *

More nights. More nightmares. When he stays over, he doesn't sleep with her anymore. She only knows he's suffering because she can hear him, even from the other room. Then he stops offering to stay the night at all. After dinner, he'll have a glass of wine with her. He'll chat. But the moment she starts to yawn, he makes his excuses to leave.

* * *

"No," Darth Vader's resounding voice purrs to Luke out of Lucifer's surround-sound and subwoofer, " _I_ am you fath—"

Everything halts with a low-pitched beep.

"Hey!" says Trixie from underneath the purple afghan Lucifer found for her. She lifts her head from Chloe's thigh to frown at him. The purring cat lies curled in the gap formed between the peaks of Trixie's knobby knees. Chloe's busyness at work and with parenting precluded the full Star Wars marathon she and Lucifer fantasized about while trapped in the woods, but they squeezed in a truncated viewing that Sunday — only the original trilogy and nothing else.

"Right, then," Lucifer says with almost manic cheer as he lowers the remote to the arm of his leather sofa. "Does anyone desire a drink? Scotch? Wine?" He glances at Trixie with a perplexed twitch of his lip. "A delicious daiquiri, perhaps?" His gaze ticks to Chloe. "Is love of daiquiris also hereditary?"

"I want a daiquiri!" says Trixie, bouncing enough to dislodge the cat from her mouse-filled dreams.

"Then a daiquiri you shall have, offspring," he replies with a regal nod.

Cerberus shakes herself off, giving them all a disgruntled look before hopping down to the plush oriental carpet and padding away.

"She can't have a daiquiri, Lucifer," Chloe says through gritted teeth. "She's  _nine_."

"Well, I meant a virgin daiquiri in her case, of course," he insists. "A mocktail, if you will."

"Do they come in cherry?" Trixie asks.

"I've the components for strawberry, banana, or piña colada," Lucifer rattles off, sticking up his thumb, index, and middle fingers in quick succession. He beams garishly at them, pulling his fingers through his mussed hair as he fidgets in his seat. "I'll even blend it fresh for you."

"Can I have all of them at  _once_?"

Lucifer frowns. "I don't believe I've ever heard of a piña strawnana daiquiri but … if it's what you desire …." He raises his eyebrows at Chloe, who, with a sigh, offers a reluctant nod.

"Virgin, Lucifer," Chloe says. "No rum. Okay?"

"Yes, yes, of course," he says, waving dismissively at her as he slides off the couch.

"Lucifer, I—"

"Back in a jiff, darling."

And then he flits away in a rumpled, fleeting streak of silk bathrobe that blurs before her eyes. The distant whir of a blender fills the quiet, and then the movie resumes its thundering revelation. Chloe glances at the arm of the sofa, noting the television remote is gone. What in the hell?

When a distraught Luke dives away from Vader, tumbling into free fall, screaming, before spilling out onto the weather vane below Cloud City to be rescued by Leia, Lando, and Chewie, though, Chloe's stomach twists.

Oh.

Yeah.

That makes sense.

With a sad sigh, Chloe pulls Trixie closer and kisses the top of her head, not at all minding the distant sound of the blender, anymore.

* * *

Lucifer is lying on the ground, cold and still, when Chloe returns from her out-of-body walkabout with Azrael, except this time, she can't say anything to release him from Raguel's handcuffs. She begs and pleads and cries, but nothing works. He doesn't hear her. Or he doesn't believe. And then he dissolves into dust and blows away in the driving rain. Over, and over, and over again on an endless loop.

Her mind is stretched on the rack of that moment.

She kicks at the covers, and she twists, and tosses, and turns, but nothing helps her escape.

A scream rips her throat, and—

"NO!" she blurts, snapping awake, panting, her heart stomping in her chest like a herd of elephants. She reaches for him, but his side of the bed is cold and empty. She swipes a sweaty tendril of hair out of her eyes, lower lip trembling. Her eyes water.

She's alone.

* * *

Late Monday afternoon sunshine creeps across Chloe's desk. At last, the poor, struggling succulent, upon which Lucifer almost committed herbicide via alcohol poisoning, is starting to bounce back. The little thing strains toward the soft patch of light. Lucifer leans-more-than-sits on the far edge of her desk, his hip bumping into the succulent's pot, though he doesn't seem to notice. A small streak of wet soil dislodges from the pot and sticks to the sleek-but-wrinkled fabric near his pocket. He doesn't seem to notice that, either.

"So," Dan begins, "I've confirmed that Thomas Widow skydived through a company called Top Flight—"

"What, like  _Top Gun_?" Lucifer says, rooting through the pile of photographs, recordings, and notes Dan brought in with him from the car. Lucifer finds the company brochure — emblazoned with two rapturous, spread-eagled skydivers descending through azure sky — and scowls at it. "They do realize fifty percent of the skydivers in that movie bloody well  _died,_ yes? It's not the best association to be making."

"Goose didn't die because he was skydiving," Dan counters. "He hit his head on the canopy when they ejected from the plane."

"Oh, well, that's  _much_  better. I stand corrected." Lucifer shakes his head as he pushes away from the desk. The plant tips off the edge, but Chloe snatches the pot out of the air before it falls and shatters. "You humans and your insistence on playing with gravity." He wheels on his feet like a prowling lion switching directions. "Newsflash: gravity bloody wins!"

"Their jet was crashing, man," Dan reasons. "They had to."

"Beside the point."

"I don't think you  _have_ a poi—"

"Guys!" Chloe snaps tiredly as she settles the abused plant back into its spot in the corner. "Can we, please, please, focus?  _Please_?"

Lucifer looks away, jaw clenching and unclenching as he slumps against Chloe's desk again. Dan, folding his arms with so much force that his biceps bulge, expels an irritated snort, glaring for a count of three in the opposite direction. Then he takes a breath and blows it out, calmer, now, before looking back at Chloe.

"Right," Dan continues, enunciating through his teeth, "so Widow was working on his skydiving A license. He wasn't at the point where he was authorized for solo jumps."

Chloe frowns, thinking. "Which means, for a pilot from Top Flight to have taken him up for a dive …?"

"He would have needed a dive instructor accompanying him, yeah."

"Which means," Chloe continues, "assuming he didn't jump without a chute of his own accord, we could be looking for a dive instructor or a pilot who pushed him?"

"Not another student?" Lucifer asks.

"Maybe," Chloe says, "but that would just add more witnesses, since another student would still need an accompanying dive instructor." She turns to Dan. "I mean, right?"

Dan nods. "Seems like a reasonable assumption." He leans forward to rummage through his notes, picking up one of the loose-leaf sheets. "So, the company has two pilots, two planes, and six dive instructors in total," he says, running his finger down the page, "and I confirmed alibis for one of the pilots and four of the instructors."

"Which leaves?"

"The instructors, Roger Simmons and Anabelle Wroth, and the pilot, Rachel Sykes. Ms. Wroth is also the owner, for what it's worth. She's the one I talked to."

"How'd she read to you?" Chloe says.

"Really concerned," Dan replies with a shrug. "Extremely solicitous." His eyes dart back and forth as he skims the page in front of him again. "The only reason I couldn't confirm an alibi for her is because she claims she was alone, savoring a new release in her favorite book series, but has nothing but a shipping order from Amazon to back up her story."

"And did anybody you questioned come off suspicious?"

"Not enough to seem unusual."

Chloe nods. A lot of people get antsy when talking to the police. It's hard, sometimes, to differentiate between normal nerves and abnormal guilt. "Okay, well, I guess we'll have to work with that."

"Must we?" Lucifer chimes in, still scowling. "Perhaps, sloth, for once, would be a more fortuitous approach."

"Oh, one more thing," Dan continues, ignoring him, but not before shooting another glare, "I checked with my guy at the F.A.A., and they don't have any flight plans registered for Top Flight during our time-of-death window. But according to Ms. Wroth, pilots at Top Flight are required to file plans for any flight they make, whether it's visual conditions or not. Company policy."

"Well, that quite  _reeks_  of murder, not suicide," Lucifer decides.

Chloe frowns. "Maybe."

"You're certain of all these alibis you've unearthed, Daniel?" Lucifer says, hope leaking into his doom-and-gloom expression like a bright sunrise. "Nothing needs additional confirmation, first?"

"I backed every one of 'em up with hard evidence, man." Dan gestures to the pile on the desk. "Just look."

Lucifer doesn't look. "Well, there's always room for more research and care, I say."

Dan's eyebrows rise toward his hairline. "Since  _when_?"

"Cooler heads will prevail, after all."

"Did you take L.S.D. or something?"

"Only benzos today, Daniel."

"Dude."

"Besides," Lucifer continues, "I'm merely stating a preference for Chl—" He clears his throat. "—for the detective's feet to remain planted on solid ground. Is that truly so hard to bel—"

" _Okay_ ," Chloe interjects through gritted teeth. "I'm gonna give the company a call. See if I can get us enrolled in a class with one of the suspects teaching."

"But—"

"I appreciate that you care so much about my safety," she says, giving Lucifer a pointed look, "but this  _is_  happening."

The temperature seems to drop by ten degrees as he stares back at her. "So, you're really bloody doing this. Despite my copious objections."

She swallows. "Yes, Lucifer. I'm really doing this."

His gaze is a black, subzero void.

"Lucifer," she repeats softly, and his harshness chips around the edges.

For a moment, he watches her, still like ice. "Very well," he says in that sepulchral, midnight tone of his. And then he stalks away, his trajectory taking him toward the break room. Two interns who were chatting in the hallway split apart, wide-eyed, to let him through. Like his presence burned them despite the gelid wave.

"Y'know," says Dan, shuddering as they watch Lucifer depart. "I … can't actually fault the guy for not wanting you to—"

"Well, what do you want me to do, Dan?" she replies, at the end of her rope. "We've gotten as far as we can with conventional methods."

Dan holds up his hands in surrender. "Hey, you're the boss. I'm just saying I get where he's coming from." His eyebrows knit. "For once."

"I get where he's coming from, too," Chloe replies. "Both of you. I do." Where they're coming from makes her  _hurt_ inside. "But we have a job to do, I'm the one in the best position to do it, and I  _promise_ you I'll be careful." She peers at Dan, giving him a chance to object again, but he doesn't. Instead, he makes a show of gathering up all his investigative notes. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hey."

"What?"

"Are  _you_ doing okay?" she says softly. "With Charlotte and … everything?"

"I just want to stop panicking every time I get a phone call from the precinct."

She nods. "Anything I can do?"

"Aside from retiring to live in a fortified bubble somewhere, so at least  _someone_ in my life is safe?" He sighs. "Not really. But … thanks." He puts his hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze before he, too, walks away.

She slips the Top Flight brochure out of his pile and circles the number with a sharpie. Then she picks up the phone.

* * *

As luck would have it, Roger Simmons is teaching a beginner skydiving class on Tuesday that has openings in it — a dive on Wednesday morning will follow. The bubbly receptionist at Top Flight is only too happy to book Cleo Post and Luke Iver into the class for their "first" dive. Lucifer takes the news with a tiny nod and no comment, snarky or otherwise. In fact, he spends the next hour sitting at her desk, staring into space with such gravity in his expression she fears a black hole will form in front of his face.

By the time they head to the staff parking lot at the end of the day, Lucifer is nothing but a dark, swirling cloud of disquiet as he stalks behind her.

"You coming home with me tonight?" she says over her shoulder, breaking the subdued silence as they reach her car. She hits the unlock button on her key fob, and the thunk of all the locks disengaging echoes through the garage.

With a huffy sigh, he opens the door, drops into the passenger seat like an anvil falling from the sky, and stares gloomily through the dirty windshield, twisting his onyx ring around his knuckle, over, and over, and over.

"Okay," she says faux-cheerfully. "Guess that's a yes."

She turns the key in the ignition, not sure what to say. Not sure if there's anything  _to_ say except, "Lucifer. Seatbelt," when the dashboard starts whining about the unsecured human-sized weight sitting in the passenger seat. But he doesn't give any indication he heard her. "Lucifer? Seatbelt?"

The ding, ding, ding warning of the dash seems to blend into one long piercing tone.

"Lucifer, come on. I'm late to pick up Trix."

Nothing.

Clenching her fingers around the steering wheel, she closes her eyes and counts to ten in her head. She's been counting in her head a  _lot_ , lately. When she finishes, he still hasn't budged an inch, and she has a moment of wondering if he's staging some form of protest. Dragging his proverbial feet in a literal way, so she can't get to the first skydiving lesson at all, let alone commit to jumping later.

"Lucifer, seriously," she tries one more time.

Nothing.

With a sigh, she opens her seatbelt and leans across the compartment resting between the seats, intent on doing the work  _for_ him if it means they actually get somewhere. He flinches away from her, a startled, upset, nonsensical little sound of alarm getting stuck in his throat like a chicken bone. He flails against the door, teeth bared like he means to bite her if that will save his soft parts.

She snaps her hand back. "Whoa," she says, heart pounding in her ears. "I'm sorry."

He looks at her but doesn't see.

"Lucifer, it's just me."

He blinks and takes a shallow, rickety breath, and another. And another. Then he cups his face in his hands like he wants to hide away. From her. The tips of his ears flush in the waning light.

"I'm so sorry," she repeats, stunned.

"I suppose I am … on edge," he admits, the words thready and cracking.

"Um." She swallows. "Yeah. That's …." Understatement. "Lucifer, you don't have to go to this class with me. Really, you don't. I'm okay by myself. I promise."

He sniffs, leaning into his palms, increasing the bend of his wrists, and then swiping down to rub his eyes with his fingertips like he's just … tired. Enervated. Done. The sound of his palms rasping against his stubble fills the quiet. Leather squeaks as he shifts in place. His seatbelt clicks.

"It's not heights," he says.

"Okay," she says with a nod.

"I'm not afraid of heights."

She frowns. "I never said you were."

He gestures at the steering wheel, seemingly to urge her onward.

She shuts off the car and turns to face him.

"What happened to emotional space?" he laments with a fleeting smile that never reaches the edges of his dark eyes.

"You're so wound up you thought I would  _hit_ you," she counters. He's so wound up he thought being hit by her would  _hurt him_. Chloe-born-mortality issues aside, who the hell can get the leverage to hit someone that hard from a sitting position in a shoebox disguised as a car? "Lucifer, this is not okay.  _You're_  not okay.  _We_ are not okay. Emotional space isn't  _working_."

He looks away.

"Please, talk to me," she begs, the words soft.

He wraps his fingers around the door handle, clenching, and he won't look at her. At all.

"Lucif—"

"It's the feeling," he admits, looking at his lap. "When the ground spills out from under one's feet, and the guts rise into the ribcage. I … don't like it. It's …." His expression reminds her of a rookie getting his first view of a real gunshot victim.

"Lucifer, you don't have to do this with me," she repeats, enunciating every word. "You do  _not_ have to subject yourself to this."

"No."

"Lucifer, really, it's—"

"No one ever caught me."

Her heart feels like someone is sticking it full of sharpened glass. "I know. I'm so sor—"

"I couldn't bear it if that ever happened to you," he says, looking up.

Her eyes water as the glass twists and turns and writhes, carving her out. She has no idea what to say. None. "Lucifer, I …."

The silence lingers. Too long.

Then he takes a shuddering breath, shucking his cowed appearance like it was a shirt that didn't fit. "Well, then," he says, straightening. The subjugated curl to his shoulders disappears. Another breath. The chameleon thing in action, and the transformation — as though he's able to flip a convenient off-switch on his own turmoil — is mesmerizing. "You've deemed this necessary. And I am your partner. As such, I will do this." And there he is. The King of Hell again. The sin of pride, personified. No demon dare. "All right?"

She nods despite her better judgment. "Okay."

"Besides, I'm the Devil," he grumbles, glaring out the window as he looks away. "I can bloody well handle human frivolity."

"I wouldn't exactly call jumping out of a plane from 12,000 feet a frivolity."

"Chloe, I built the bloody sun," he retorts.

"I …." A tiny smile tugs at her lips. "Okay, good point."

"Now, shall we pick up the offspring before she rebels, or do you wish to wallow longer?"

With a soft laugh, she turns the car back on, and she pulls out of her parking space.


	6. Icarus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much as always for all the lovely feedback :) It's always a joy to see your reactions and thoughts as you read through! 
> 
> Chapter title credit goes to Bastille.
> 
> Definitely changing my posting schedule to late evenings (Tues/Sat), now. It's just easier for me.
> 
> Enjoy!

The reception area at Top Flight is a claustrophobic room, approximately ten by ten. Behind the desk sits a slight woman with a diamond nose stud, and dark hair dyed the color of raspberries. Framed pictures of gleeful skydivers — all wearing dark flight suits similar in color to what the victim had been wearing — cover the sky-blue wall behind the desk. The room contains a tiny row of chairs aligned along the back wall, a small end table covered in skydiving-themed magazines, and an unmarked door.

"Cleo Post," Chloe says to the red-haired receptionist. Chloe gestures to Lucifer, who's standing like a silent shadow beside her, fixated on the pictures like they're crime scene photos. "And this is my boyfriend, Luke Iver. We're signed up for the—"

"The beginner class at 9:30," says the receptionist, nodding. She pokes a long, manicured fingernail at the monitor, marking her place with a faint tap. "Yes, I have you listed riiight … uh … here."

The keyboard clacks. A few mouse clicks later, the woman peels her attention away from the screen to peer at Chloe. Her eyebrows knit. She gives Lucifer a furtive glance, her puzzled expression intensifying.

"Something wrong?" Chloe says.

"You look … familiar," says the receptionist. She brushes a braid away from her face. "Have you been here before?"

"Nope. Never skydived before in my life."

"Huh."

Chloe beams. "I guess I've just got one of those faces."

The other woman nods absently, shifting her attention to Lucifer. "What about you? Your first time as well?"

When Lucifer doesn't speak, Chloe nudges him with her elbow. "Oh, I've done it once," he says, tearing himself away from scrutinizing the photos. "Didn't go well. Utter pants, actually."

The receptionist smiles. "Well, don't worry, Mr. Iver. We'll make sure your experience here at Top Flight is far more enjoyable."

"I daresay it would be almost impossible not to," Lucifer replies with an oozing grin that doesn't meet his eyes. "For once, I give superior credit to human inferiority."

Chloe coughs.

"Right," the receptionist says slowly. "Well." She points at the unmarked door. "You two just go right through there. You'll find your jumpsuits in the locker rooms. After you change, just head on back past the showers. That's where the simulators are. You'll find your other classmates there already."

"Sorry we're a little late," Chloe says.

"Oh, it's no problem," the receptionist replies, beaming at them. "We pad the schedule specifically to account for stragglers."

"One can only wonder why people would be routinely late for such a  _downer_ experience," Lucifer cracks, deadpan.

"Oh, you're so  _funny_!"

"I've been told that, yes."

Chloe closes her eyes and wishes for fortitude.

* * *

The back area of Top Flight opens up into a wide gunmetal-gray space that seems more like an airport hangar than a warehouse, save for the absence of any planes parked within. The air smells faintly of WD-40 and citrus. In the far corner, a small classroom area is situated with a whiteboard and a few desks. Four other people wearing jumpsuits sit at the desks, leaving two adjacent seats empty in the first of the two rows of chairs.

A late-forty-something blond man bedecked in one of Top Flight's navy jumpsuits stands by the whiteboard up front. The faint beginnings of crows feet hugging his eyes, along with his ample beard and graying, wavy hair — which is pulled back into a ponytail — give him a bit of a grizzled countenance.

He doesn't greet her, instead regarding her with a deepening frown and ocean-blue eyes absent any twinkle as she approaches. The four other students in the class crane their necks around to peer at her as well.

"H-hi, everyone," she says, injecting a breathy kind of shyness into her tone. To add to the effect, she offers them all a hesitant, twitchy little wave.

She gets a few murmured greetings and some smiles in response, though the instructor is still only staring. Which is … troubling. Her flight suit rustles loudly in the silence as she takes one of the empty seats in the first row.

"Hello?" she repeats, wide-eyed, looking up at the man by the whiteboard.

The man gives himself a visible little shake. "Cleo Post?"

Chloe grins. "Yep, that's me!"

"Welcome!" he says. A smile stretches across his face but doesn't reach his eyes as he leans forward, hand outstretched. She shakes his offered hand, which is dry and warm and callused. "I'm Roger Simmons. Please, call me Rog. I'll be your instructor today."

"For the first jump, too?"

"Depends," Rog says, his initial puzzlement melting away by the second. "There'll be three instructors with you tomorrow, and, yes, I'll be one of them, but I might not be the one diving specifically with you. We'll go up in two shifts. Three instructors, three students each."

"Thanks! I feel safer already!" Chloe says, simpering. "I'm like … so nervous.  _So_  nervous. So is Luke."

Rog nods again. "Luke is …?"

"My partner," she says, letting the words sit there and be vague. "We were both a wreck this morning, but we can't  _wait_ to try this out."

"Hmm," says Rog. The frown is back. "Well, absolutely, this will be a unique, rewarding experience for both of you. And you have nothing to be nervous about. All our dives are safe as houses."

"That's what Tommy said."

"Tommy?"

"My friend," Chloe replies. "Tommy Wi—" Rog's eyes widen "—tman." Rog relaxes. Interesting. She files that away for later. "He skydives a lot."

"Oh?" Rog says. "Through what company?"

"I think … um …." She looks up at the ceiling, making a show of trying to remember. "Take a Dive?"

"Ah. Well, you should have him join us, sometime."

"I'll be sure to ask him when I get a chance."

She glances over her shoulder, toward the locker rooms, from which Lucifer has yet to emerge. The minutes stretch. One of the students behind her sighs. She bites her lip, peering at her watch. At around the ten-minute mark, Lucifer glides into the room, sporting his flight suit like it's the highlight of Versace's lineup. His shiny wingtip shoes, which he hasn't bothered to replace with sport-appropriate footwear, complete the ensemble.

"Hello, hello, everyone," he says, flashing a winning smile as he approaches. "Apologies for the delay."

All eyes turn to him. The navy-colored flight suit sets off his paleness in stark relief. His lips and cheeks are absent any of their natural blush. His eyes seem … almost glassy. He keeps his hands stuffed into his pockets.

"You must be Luke?" Rog says. The frown returns yet again.

Lucifer purrs, "Well, I'll certainly allow you to call me that."

"I'm Roger Simmons. Please, call me Rog. I'll be your instructor today."

"Yes, I heard you the first time."

Rog's frown deepens. Chloe resists the urge to wince, instead coughing loudly into her hand.

"Roleplay, Lucifer," she murmurs under her breath, knowing he'll hear it. "Remember? Humans can't hear that well."

"Mmm-hmm," he hums, giving her a pointed-but-unreadable sidelong look.

His lithe frame is too long for the small desk. With a grimace, he pulls one hand from his pocket, gripping the side of the desk to help himself balance as he contorts to fit into the seat. His fingers tremble. Just a brief flutter before they still. She wouldn't have caught the movement were it not for his onyx ring catching the light as it shifted.

Worse, though, is his hair, which was perfectly coiffed only minutes before. A few flyaway strands at the back of his head — where a mirror wouldn't have helped him see his dishevelment — break through the thick shell of product keeping his hair tame. Like … he was yanking on it. Scrunching up his fingers as he curled in on himself in misery. Or something.

She can't stop herself from imagining him having a panic attack in the locker room — a moment where he dissolved, alone and terrified. That horrible thought lingers, and then she's ricocheting back into the woods, weeks ago, and he's gasping,  _I'm going to die,_ as she grips his icy hands and tries to assure him otherwise. Her stomach seems to press into her ribcage at the memory, like she's entering free fall.

She gives herself a shake, trying to stuff the lurid memory back into history, where it belongs.

"So,  _Rog_ ," Lucifer is saying with a brief sneer, running his tongue along his teeth like a wolf licking its chops. "Tell me."

 _Fuck_.

"Lucifer!" Chloe snaps under her breath, a soft, sibilant hiss. " _Roleplay_!"

But he doesn't listen, and whatever crazy divine mojo Lucifer is dumping into the classroom doesn't cease. Rog's posture slackens, and his gaze clouds over. Everyone in the class watches slack jawed, as an invisible noose tightens around their necks.

"What is it you desire?" Lucifer says.

Rog peers into space. "What I … desire."

"Weed!" says the only other student in the front row, a man in his twenties with curly black hair.

"Not you," Lucifer says, breaking his gaze with Rog long enough to peer at the other man, "though, talk to me later. Perhaps, I can hook you—"

"Luke," Chloe warns.

"Yes, yes," Lucifer says dismissively, "the  _rules_. I know." He leans forward as he turns back to Rog, who's swaying, looking almost roofied. "Do tell me, Rog."

Rog swallows. "Yeah?"

"Your desire," Lucifer repeats, sinking his not-so-imaginary hooks in again. "Tell me, and perhaps you can save me and my partner a trip."

"I …." Rog's eyebrows knit. "A trip?"

"Yes," purrs Lucifer. He directs his dark gaze to the floor. "Down. I'd quite like to avoid it, if at all possible."

"Oh," Rog says, cocking his head to the side. Whatever Lucifer's doing seems to stick to Rog like taffy, but then his lips twitch, and he takes a breath. He beams. "Oh, there's no need to worry, Mr. Iver. Our dives are completely safe."

"Are they."

"Absolutely. You'll see when I get more into the material."

"Of course, you'd be a complicated one," Lucifer grumbles, slumping against his desk. The metal creaks with his shifting weight. And then he looks up, blame searing his dark eyes. "Because of  _course_  you bloody would."

"Right …," says Rog. Then he clears his throat and claps his hands with a charming  _go team!_  enthusiasm. "So, let's get started, okay? We've got a lot to cover. And we'll see if we can't calm those inevitably jangling nerves."

* * *

Rog spends the next two hours going over all the safety rules, before discussing how the chutes work, and delineating methods for aiming one's descent. He shows them a pre-recorded video that walks through every step of the dive, from takeoff to landing. By the time the caterers show up with lunch — a colorful, enticing spread of various taco fixings and sides arrayed on a long banquet table in the back — everybody is up to their ears in facts and figures and emergency procedures. When Rog releases the class for lunch, Chloe lingers behind despite her rumbling stomach.

"So … like … what's the actual likelihood that someone's parachute wouldn't open?" Chloe hazards as Rog wipes down the whiteboard.

"Minuscule, Ms. Post," he answers with a smile. "And were that unlikely event to happen, you do have a backup chute. The chance that both would fail is—"

"Not zero," Lucifer interjects, stalking up behind them.

" _Effectively_ zero," Rog corrects, unfazed by the interruption. "You have an exponentially greater probability of dying in an automobile accident than of dying in a skydiving accident."

"What about when it's not an accident?" Lucifer says, bald and to the point, and Chloe cringes.

"I … I don't know what you mean," Rog stammers.

Chloe clears her throat. "Has a double parachute failure ever happened to anyone before?"

"Well, yes," Rog says. He beams again. "But never once at Top Flight. That, I can assure you."

"What about at other companies in the area? Like within the past month."

"I assure you, you two have  _nothing_  to worry about."

"Could a parachute fall off mid-descent?"

"Ms. Post,  _really_." Rog shifts from foot to foot. "That won't happen. You have  _nothing_  to worry about."

"I'm sure we don't." She grins obsequiously up at him. "How easy is it to fall out of a plane, anyway?"

He coughs. "Ms. Post, if you have any misgivings at all, we have a full refund policy, literally all the way until you've left the plane."

"You mean you charge the poor saps who fall?" Lucifer interjects.

"No!" says Rog. "No, I mean we only charge you if you  _voluntarily_  jump!"

"So, you've actually delineated in your pricing structure that falls are free of charge," Lucifer scoffs. "What a comfort!"

"No, that  _isn't_  what I—"

"Sorry," Chloe rushes to say, offering Rog another disarming smile and a self-deprecating shrug. "Sorry, we're just nervous, I guess. So, has anyone ever been pushed?"

" _Pushed_?" Rog coughs again, eyes bulging.

"To jump, I mean."

"Oh!" Rog says, shaking his head. "Oh, no. No, of course, not." He laughs, though the sound, like a boiling tea kettle, maps the dissolution of his sanity more than it maps the easing of his stress. "That's … well, that's unthinkable. Honestly, we're trying to win your business, not make you sue us."

"Good to know," she says, out of ideas for how to further wind him up. Damn it. She glances over Rog's shoulder at Lucifer, who doesn't offer her anything but a bleak, dark-eyed stare in return. She forces herself to let loose an animated, bubbly little laugh. "Well, I guess it's time for tacos, then, isn't it, Luke?"

"Oh, yes," says Lucifer with a flat expression. "Goody."

* * *

The skydiving simulator is a cylindrical room encased in clear plexiglass. The column extends upward about thirty feet. Cool air whooshes up through the grates in the floor, lifting whoever's inside the chamber. The last time Chloe went skydiving, vertical wind tunnels weren't as readily available as they are, now. She's never tried one before and is eager to hop in, despite Lucifer's vaguely sick look at the prospect.

When the wind lifts her into the air, she stretches out her arms and legs and yips with glee. Her hair whips away from her face, in the grips of the rushing air. Great gusts catch on her outstretched palms.

Flying.

She's flying.

At a non-threatening shoulder height.

Without ever leaving the Top Flight warehouse.

Her grin hurts her face, but she can't stop smiling, and her excitement over doing the real thing again tomorrow intensifies. She drifts around in the chamber, wiggling her fingers and toes with delight. Rog lets her float around for an almost five minutes before pulling her down again.

"See? Isn't it  _fun_?" he says, sounding more screechy than cheerful.

"Totally!" she allows herself to admit, resisting the urge to apologize for the investigative stress balloon she popped in his face earlier.

As she stumbles out of the wind tunnel, back into normal airflow, she laughs, wiping her scattered, tangled hair away from her windswept face. She gets a vague glimpse of herself, a reflection in the plexiglass. Her cheeks and eyes are rosy from being battered by the breeze. Still, she grins like she's drunk on life.

She finds Lucifer standing tall and straight and pale, pressed into the corner by some Pelican cases. "Enjoy yourself, did you?" he says, looking at her like he thinks she's daft.

"Yeah," she replies, sobering. "Are you okay?"

"Of course, I'm not okay," he replies through his teeth, face arrayed in a predatory scowl. "Even I can't make a onesie work." He gestures at himself, shoulder to hip. "I mean …  _look_  at me."

His attempt at disarming humor falls flat, thanks to the absence of a playful gleam in his eyes. She snorts with amusement, anyway. He does look a little silly, if only because of his inappropriate shoes, and she's willing to chew on any scrap of levity he serves right now.

"You won't feel the stomach-drop thing you hate," she assures him, pressing close. "It feels like flying, not falling." Or, well, what she  _thinks_ flying would feel like to him, given how much he professes to enjoy it. "I'm sure you'll be okay."

"There's no drop?"

"No," she says. "Only lift." She frowns, the simulator experience having sparked some memories. "Come to think of it, you won't really feel a drop when you jump out of the plane, either. That feeling comes from rapid acceleration, and the plane is already going near terminal velocity when you dive out of it. I mean, maybe, for a split second, but …."

"Hmm," he says, noncommittal, though his eyebrows shift, and his posture stiffens. The doubt in his expression makes her ache.

"Did you …?" She gestures vaguely with an open palm. "Did you feel like you were falling the whole way down? When you …?"

He stills.

"I'm sorry," she blurts. "I'm sorry. Curiosity got me." She offers him a self-deprecating laugh. "Talk about a  _really_  bad time to ask that question."

"Dad invented physics, you know," Lucifer says, sounding haunted as he peers into space. "Of course, he wasn't bound by it when he punished me."

Her stomach twists, when she thinks about that.

"You," Lucifer says quietly, trailing away. "You really didn't feel …?" He nods at the latest aspiring skydiver floating beyond the plexiglass — a young tatted grad student named Akwasi — the weed aficionado from earlier — who's laughing like he's high, much like Chloe did.

"It felt free," she says. "Not constricted or sickening. I promise."

Lucifer gives the wind tunnel another doubtful look, a tense sigh pushing out through his clenched teeth.

She wraps her arms around his waist, gratified to feel him leaning into her gesture. "Hey," she says, trying to inject more levity, "I know you think you can't work a onesie, but navy is  _definitely_ your color." The dark blue pops with his skin tone and brings out his eyes. "Whoever decided your whole Devil schtick should be bright tomato red was completely tripping." She grins. "You, sir, are a winter through and through."

He looses a shaky laugh. "And you've taken the casually windswept look to a new extreme, I see." Raising a hand to her head, he brushes his fingers against her temple, over her ear, and down her neck, stroking her hair.

She leans into his touch, though his fingertips are cold and quivering. When he finishes, his palm stilling against her pulse point, she rises to her tiptoes to kiss him. He didn't partake in lunch and still tastes faintly of toothpaste. She scrunches her fingers at the nape of his neck. A soft, pleased sound rumbles in his throat.

Subtle P.D.A. is one nice thing about going undercover with him on this case. Conflicting investigative methodologies aside, at least here she doesn't have to hide her feelings behind a wall of professionalism like she does at the office. They're  _supposed_ to be a couple for this ruse, so, today's been a nice vacation in that respect.

"What  _does_ flying feel like to you, anyway?" she asks him when she pulls away.

He frowns. "You've done it with me."

"Yeah, um." She grimaces. "I'm assuming the whiplash, extreme disorientation, and urge to vomit had more to do with how fast you grabbed me than it did the flying itself?"

A flash of regret burns bright like phosphorous in his expression.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," she rushes to say. "I'm all for nausea and whiplash if it means I get to keep breathing. Really."

He doesn't reply. His gaze shifts to a point beyond her shoulder, and he sways from foot to foot, his fingers tightening painfully against her clavicle. She turns. Akwasi is tottering away from the wind tunnel. Which means Lucifer is the only student who hasn't gone yet.

"You don't have to do this," she reiterates. "It's okay to say no."

" _No_."

"Lucifer, that's not what I—"

"I'll … I'll let you know if … if flying feels like …." He doesn't finish his sentence, instead nodding toward the plexiglass column. He pulls his trembling fingers through his hair, leaving what was left of his coiffed look in shreds. His teeth chatter so briefly she wonders if she's seeing things.

"Are you ready, Mr. Iver?" calls Rog. "I promise, it's fun."

"Yes," snaps Lucifer, "I'm sure you say that to all your victims."

Rog's color drains like his neck is a sieve.

"You'll be okay," Chloe assures Lucifer, pasting a smile onto her face. "I promise."

He lingers beside her for a moment, like he wants to go for a soak in her confidence. After one final furtive glance in her direction, he strides toward the tunnel without a hint of hesitation in his gait. Then, with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes, he steps inside.

His smirk succumbs, first, replaced by a flat, grim line, and then his body yields to the wind. Most of the previous divers stretched their arms ahead of their bodies and closed their eyes, as if picturing themselves to be Superman in flight. Lucifer keeps his fists balled, clutched to his ribcage, and his gaze remains fixed on a nebulous point in space. Chloe inches toward the plexiglass, lining up beside Akwasi, who stuck around to watch.

"So, the goal is to float," Rog jokes from the entryway, "not look like the the air is bludgeoning you to death."

Lucifer glares. "And how precisely do you expect me to do that?"

"You gotta loosen up a bit. Go with the flow."

Lucifer, drifting with all the grace of a brick tossed through a closed window, snaps back, "Who the bloody hell do you think you are? Bikram?"

"Who?"

"For Dad's sake, never mind."

"Look, just … raise your arms," Rog suggests. "You'll have a bit more control."

"I'll raise what I wish, and at the moment, none of my limbs qualifies, thank you."

With a sigh, Rog steps into the wind.

Lucifer's gaze shifts from the horizon to Rog. "Human, I really don't need your help to  _fly_."

"It's kinda looking like you do, man."

"If only you knew."

Rog shakes his head, inching closer. "I just want to show you how to …." His fingertips brush Lucifer's back, just over his shoulder blades.

Lucifer bucks, something inside of him seeming to snap apart like brittle rubber bands. His irises flash crimson. Rog yelps and leaps backward like someone struck him with a hot iron. "Holy! What was!?"

"Dude," says Akwasi, turning to Chloe. "Did you see …?"

Chloe winces. "Uh … see what?"

Akwasi taps his temples like he thinks his eyes are malfunctioning.

Lucifer scrambles out of his plexiglass prison, away from Rog, away from the buffeting wind. As soon as his feet touch solid ground beyond the grating, he sags against the wall, his face ashen, breaths tight and rasping. One pale, trembling hand reaches for the glass, but he can't get purchase on the smooth surface. And then Rog steps out, too, gibbering, flailing. The other three students, all milling by the snack table at the far edge of the room, look up, their attention following the commotion.

"What the hell?" snaps Rog, too close, gesticulating. Lucifer flinches with every syllable. "What the hell? What the  _hell!_ Did you  _see_ that?"

"See what?" Chloe adds again, heart pounding. "I didn't see anything." She points to the snack table. "Why don't we all go over there and have a glass of water?"

Rog gives her a manic, disturbed grimace, gesturing impotently at Lucifer. "He …. His eyes did a thing with a …. It-it-it was red! You didn't see?"

She shakes her head. "Why don't we give Luke some space, yeah? He seems—"

"You okay, dude?" Akwasi says, stepping toward Lucifer.

"I'm …." Lucifer swallows. Again, again, again. Like he's forcing back vomit. "No."

"I saw flames. In his  _eyes_!" Rog snaps, dissolving all over again. " _Literal flames_!"

"We should call medical," decides Akwasi. His hand brushes—

" _Do not touch me_!" Lucifer roars, the words a chest-breaking boom of thunder, as one too many people breach his personal space.

Chloe has a chance to take a step toward him — only one — before he brings his wild eyes to bear on her. His sclerae are visible all around his irises. With his lips pulled back in a stressed, suffering, snarling rictus, he draws himself to his full height, stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets. He bulls Rog and Akwasi aside like a linebacker and stalks away. Toward the locker room. His last few steps become literal flight when he can't seem to quell his urge to flee enough to still appear human. In a whisper of movement and a shining hint of wings, he's gone, and the door is swinging shut behind him.

Akwasi blinks. "I  _really_  need to stop smoking weed."

"What the fucking hell was  _that_?" yells Rog, spitting, shaking. "FUCK."

But Chloe's already left him, Akwasi, and the other students behind, chasing, instead, after Lucifer.

* * *

The men's locker room is vacant and quiet, save for the soft pat, pat, pat sound emanating from a damp shower stall. She finds Lucifer's blue flight suit ripped up and discarded on the tile floor by the bench like trash. One of the locker doors hangs open, the inside empty, though the space smells of vanilla, like his cologne.

She has a flicker of hope she'll find him out by the car, waiting for her.

But as she trots back through reception, past the windswept, wide-eyed, raspberry-haired receptionist who's babbling, "He … he … he …," her hope fleets. And when she gets a glimpse of her car — still empty in the sun-baked parking lot — she slumps.

Because, of course. Of course, a panicking, mortified archangel wouldn't stick around to be gawked at by his girlfriend. Not that she'd ever gawk at him on purpose, but he's a cynic who isn't thinking rationally right now.

With a sigh, she gives him a call, but he doesn't pick up.

She texts, but he doesn't read it, at least not as far as read receipts reveal.

As she sinks into her driver's seat, clutching the steering wheel, she wonders what to do. Whether to leave him be to have his space or …. Linda's voice echoes in her head. No. No, Chloe's not going to fall into this trap again.

She shakes her head and presses her palms together.  _Lucifer,_ she prays,  _I'm coming to Lux. Just to be there — you don't have to talk to me or even look at me. Emotional space, yeah? But I_ am  _going to be there. So, if physical space is really what you're after right now, what you_ desire,  _then you need to tell me before I get there. Call, or text, or … whatever. Otherwise, I'll see you soon._ She swallows, her mind flashing to a memory of his furniture covered in a swath of white sheets. Pure melodrama, her rational side insists. Still, her insecure side compels her to add softly,  _I hope, anyway._

She glances at her cellphone.

The minutes pass.

He doesn't call. He doesn't text.

She turns the key in the ignition.


	7. Ultraviolet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have good news and bad news and then more good news!
> 
> Good: You might have noticed the chapter count has jumped to 10. This is because I've written a 1k word epilogue. So ... more! Yay!
> 
> Bad: I'm going on vacation next week and won't be back until June 2, so there will be a "break in service" until the normally scheduled June 4 post. Sorry, guys :(
> 
> Back to good: I think/hope you'll at least be pleased with where I temporarily leave you :) Happy holidays, everybody!
> 
> Thanks again, as always, to those of you who take the time to leave me feedback, be that in the form of kudos or comments. All of you are the best! Chapter title credit goes to Freya Ridings. Enjoy!

His penthouse is still, but not quiet. The sliding doors hang open, letting in the distant sounds of life floating up from the street. Car honks and chatter. A distant radio. The bass, chest-rattling thump, thump, thump of a subwoofer. Late afternoon sunshine spills through the vast wall of glass windows, casting long shadows across the marble floor. The curtains billow in the soft breeze, which smells faintly of salt and exhaust. And not a single sheet covers any of his furniture.

"… Hello?" she calls into the room as she steps off the elevator. "Lucifer? I'm here …."

He doesn't answer.

"… Lucifer?"

The elevator doors trundle shut behind her. She inches past his piano, brushing her fingers along the smooth, lacquered wood. The piano's lid is pulled over the keys, and the glossy hood is down, concealing the strings and felt-tipped hammers within.

She jars to a halt at the top of his bedroom steps, and her right palm flies to her mouth, covering her lips.

"Oh," she says, a hurting gasp.

His bed is yanked away from the back wall and resituated with the edge pushed against his westward-facing window. Lucifer lies curled up under his sheets and blankets, bare inches from the glass, his body facing away from her but toward the sunset. Meanwhile, his reading chair, nightstands, floor lamps, dresser …. He's avulsed all of them from their normal positions, smashing them into a helter skelter, broken pile along the wall where his bed used to be. On the closest nightstand glints a dusty sheen of white powder, an unfurled-but-curling $100 bill, and a crystal tumbler faintly ringed with amber-colored liquid at the bottom.

"Did you snort something?" she finds herself blurting.

"Rowl?" says the cat, looking up with sleepy green eyes. She's curled up in the blankets near the nape of Lucifer's neck, almost lost in the luxurious sprawl of his heather-gray comforter.

In the ominous, silent stillness, her heart drops out through her stomach.

"Lucifer!"

She darts across the floor, stepping over his sleek, expensive suit, which is crumpled in a forgotten heap on the floor like so much trash, and she jams her knee against the edge of the bed, stretching across empty space. Reaching for him.

His long, dragging inhalation makes her own breath catch.

"Oh," she manages, collapsing onto her butt. She wraps her trembling arms around her midsection. "Oh, God."

"S'only Tic-Tacs, Detective," he mumbles, not turning to face her. "No need to bring Dad into it."

She blinks. "Only Tic-Tacs?  _Only_? Lucifer, that's—"

"Completely bloody ineffective," he says glumly. "You needn't worry over me." Another sigh. "Angelic metabolism come yet again to keep my mellow thoroughly bloody harshed."

She squeezes her eyes shut, counting to ten in her head. He snorted  _sleeping pills_. Tried to smash himself into unconsciousness by force. Because, of course, he did. Because, he's …. No. Not because he's the Devil. Because he's in pain. And he's self-medicating. And that's not a habit she's going to fix by yelling at him.

"Look, I'm just," she says, trying to keep her voice from warbling. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean …. I'm … I'm just here."

He doesn't reply.

She sets her purse down in the ruin next to the bed and kicks off her shoes before lying on her back beside him. Reaching across the mattress, she lingers over the peak of his pale shoulder, close enough for the heat of his skin to radiate against her palm. But ….

_Do not_ touch  _me!_ he's snapped when he's been triggered. More than once.

Aborting the gesture, she gives the cat a scratch under the chin, instead.

"Rowl!"

The purring amplifies.

Blankets shift. Lucifer rests a pale fingertip against the window, leaving a smudge. He takes a deep breath, almost like he's luxuriating in the scent and taste of the air, and then traces a protracted, quivering line along the glass.

"There's … no sun in Hell," he says quietly. "And it reeks of brimstone."

She peers across the bed at him, realizing at last what he's been doing with his destructive redecorating spree: reminding himself.

Her chest aches. "Can I touch you?"

"If you like."

She shifts her hand from the cat to his left trapezius muscle, massaging the knots that twist beneath his skin.

He takes another breath. "It wasn't like flying. I was too busy hoping it wouldn't be like falling."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"This whole case is just …."

His bitter, dissonant laugh echoes off the window. "A bloody nightmare?"

_His_  bloody nightmare, for sure. "Definitely not what I would pick for practically-first-day-back-from-violent-kidnapping-and-subsequent-near-death material."

He doesn't reply, instead tracing the line along the window again. "I'm … pleased that you're here."

"Really?"

"Yes." The cat directs an irritated glare at him, darting out of his path as he rolls to face Chloe. His despondent gaze is wet and rimmed with red, though he isn't crying. He strokes her cheek. "You're not in Hell, either."

"Lucif—" His thumb slides to her lips, shushing her. "—hmm."

She kisses the pad of his finger.

The mattress creaks, and the comforter rustles as he shifts closer, his eyes filled with a dark, desperate haze of intent. Spilling all his radiant heat into her personal space, his body settles flush with hers, his navel against her hip. Only the pancaked layer of blankets shoved down to the middle of his ribcage separate them. He wraps an arm over her body, pulling her close, pressing his nose into her hair and kissing her there. Her insides, unattached to anything in her brain that halfway approaches logic, tighten at the prospect. The rest of her, though, is clanging dissonance.

"Mmm," he purrs by her ear, nuzzling her. "Your cream rinse smells lovely. No brimstone, there."

His fingertips slide over her thigh.

Dissonance becomes warning klaxons.

"Lucifer," she manages, squirming backward as he kisses along her jawline. "Lucifer, no."

He stills. "Apologies." She can almost hear his frown. "You don't wish to …?"

"I do in a general conceptual sense," she replies, heart aching. "I love you. Very much."

His eyes narrow. "But?"

"But … I'm not comfortable with being your … your …."

"My?"

"Well, I mean, I'm not just here so you can remind yourself you're not in Hell. I'm not the drug you take when … when crushed-up Ambien doesn't work. I'm  _not_  just a self-help screw." She winces. Fuuuck. "Oh, God, that sounded a lot harsher than I meant it to be. It's just …."

He draws back, the deep frown on his face painting his features with severe, sharp lines as he sits up.

"I'm sorry," she rushes to say. "It's only … I don't want to have sex with you if that's all it is. I'm more than that."

He pulls his fingers through his hair. The setting sun illuminates his dark eyes with striations of a lighter almost-honey shade of brown, and colors the tips of his curling hair like molten metal. "Darling, that's not at all what I …." He takes a breath that seems to have nothing to do with scenting salt or scenting her. "I mean, yes, I was intending to remind myself of where I am and where I am not, but not through … tawdry …." He peers at a point in the corner on the floor, away from her, his teeth clenched, head bobbing like the beginnings of a headshake, but not quite that severe. "Not  _ever_  through …."

Guilt clenches in her gut. And then a little anger at the guilt. She won't apologize for her disquiet. But …. "The context … made me … uncomfortable."

"You mean  _I_  made you uncomfortable."

She won't lie. "Yeah. A little."

He turns toward the window, staring into space. Into the setting sun. A small, ludicrous part of her wants to warn him he might blind himself doing that, since she's here.

With a sigh, she squeezes his shoulder once again and says, "I'll go. I wanted to help, not make things worse."

She reaches for her purse.

"There is no love in Hell," he says as her fingertips brush the leather strap.

" _What?_ "

"I was only trying to bask in that," he continues. " _With_  you. Not …."

A lump forms in her throat.

"We could watch the next  _Star Wars_  trilogy instead, if you like," he offers with a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Or … you could read your book, and I'll read mine, and …." He peers over his shoulder at her. "Which ubiquitous pop-cultural blight are you working your way through, now?"

" _C-catching Fire_ ," she says thickly, almost too choked up to speak.

"We could do that?" he says, raising his eyebrows. "That'd be cracking as well."

"Because you'd be basking. With me."

"Yes," he confirms with a quick nod. "Yes, precisely. Or I could whip us up some dinner and pour a bottle of wine? It's close enough to dinner time for you, I think. I've some fresh scallops and a silk-smooth '97 merlot. Perhaps, we could—"

"Shut up," she replies, her words a bare croak, as she drops her purse back to the floor with a noisy thunk and scrambles across the bed to meet him. "Oh, my God, shut up. I don't wanna do any of that right now."

Looking away, shoulders curling, he mutters, "Apologies, I—"

And then she kisses him.

He sucks in a breath, but doesn't participate. She drapes her arms over his shoulders, clasping her fingers against his bare sternum, and he's pliant, but he isn't …. Oh. "I consent," she murmurs against his skin. "I consent. I'm sorry for the yo-yo. Absolutely, totally, enthusiastically consenting here. Really."

"Not that I'm at all complaining, mind you," he replies, his apparent bemusement knitting his eyebrows together, "but what changed your mind?"

"I misunderstood what you were doing," she says, pulling him close. "That's all." She kisses him, pressing her nose to the nape of his neck, inhaling. "Forget what I said before." A faint hint of sandalwood scent coils in her throat. "I'd  _love_  to bask with you." To love with him, in his bed.

"You … would?"

She nods. "Of course, I would.  _I love you, too_ ," she says, repeating her earlier affirmation as she tightens her embrace. "Very much."

And this time, when he lifts her fingers to his lips, she lets him kiss her to his heart's content.

* * *

Time is a tangled blur as clothes come off — his boxer briefs, her shirt and jeans and underwear.

They make love in the warm bath of waning sunlight. She sits astride him, filled by him, straddling his heaving sides with her knees. He looks up at her with all his stars alight in his eyes, his fingers clutching her thighs as she rocks against him. She splays both hands against his navel, meanders along the ripples of his ribcage, slides up his neck, and then tangles in his messy hair as she drops her torso to his like a settling wave. Pressing her ear to his chest, she takes in the sounds of his gradual dissolution — rasping breaths that become low-pitched groans that become a guttural, "Yes, yes, please," chant of encouragement.

Skin on skin with him, she sweats. He sweats. They grind.

Together.

She kisses his chest, his left nipple, his right, tasting the salt of him, catching his puckered skin between her teeth.

His lower body bucks against her, and his fingertips dig into her quads, fiercely enough to bruise. Sucking air between her teeth, she clenches her thighs against his hips.

"Sorry," he rasps, panting, before he flails for the sheets instead.

"I liked it," she replies.

"A good flinch?"

"Mmm," she says with a nod. "Yes. Very. More."

With a laugh, he says, "Well, then." And he puts his hands back where they were.

She kisses him. Tastes him. Watches him. She cups his face, gripping his chin, her nails digging crescents into his skin as she pushes onto him, again, again, again. He mirrors her movements, a push to her pull, a pull to her push, finding a deeper place within her. She eggs him on with a demanding litany of affirmatives. His eyes never leave hers.

Tension is a spiral with no end. His. Hers. Until she can hardly breathe or think, and his hands gripping her thighs are like an iron pillory demanding their bodies remain synched.

A rough growl lingers in his throat, and then the growl becomes a triumphant exultation. He spills into her, his lower body and abs twitching rhythmically. The feel of him undone undoes her, and she moans as her own body tightens like a screw being turned. His thrusting isn't enough alone, though, and she's left gritting her teeth, a visible but inaudible snarl of pain-but-not painting her face, as she wishes for more. Just a little more. Something. She drags her teeth against his jawline. He nudges her, capturing her mouth with his own.

Pushing up and over with his hips, he tips them onto their sides and reaches between them. As he goes flaccid and slips out of her, he presses his hand between her legs, petting her instead. She never feels an absence.

"Yes," she rasps breathlessly. "Yes, right there."

"This is what you desire?"

" _Yes_ ," she says, panting. "Yes.  _Oh_." Her insides become an unbearable, inescapable gravity well. She jams down on his hand, fighting for her own release. He kisses her. Her fingernails rake down his back. He—

"What are  _you_  looking at?" he snaps, and everything stops.

"What?" She swallows, blinking, dazed. "What? I'm not …."

"Not  _you_ ," he says. "You can look all you like. I meant the bloody cat."

With a frown, she squints muzzily beyond his shoulder. Cerberus is sitting on the corner of the bed, staring, her tail swishing back and forth.

No. No, no,  _no_.

Not now.

With a disgruntled moan, she rubs his hip with the inside of her knee, trying to pull his attention back to her. His body wobbles in response, but his attention doesn't.

"Shoo!" Lucifer says, undeterred. He swats in the cat's general direction with his free hand.

That cat doesn't move and doesn't look away.

"Of course, I'd rescue a feline voyeur," Lucifer grumbles. He glares at the creature. "You're ruining our basking."

Chloe laughs, though the sound is more of a  _whyyy_ injected into an exhalation than anything else. "Lucifer, it's just a cat."

"Just a cat," he echoes. " _Just_  a cat? There is bloody well no such thing. I'll have you know that cats—"

She tips up and kisses him on the lips, dispelling his wouldbe diatribe. "Know that cats … what?"

He blinks. "Know …." He swallows as she makes a slow, sensuous show of licking her lips. "Know …." She arches backward, pushing her breasts against his torso. "Mmm. It would seem … that I've forgotten."

She kisses him. "Never woulda thought the Devil'd have problems with an audience, feline or otherwise."

"I bloody well don't," he says, cupping her between her legs. "Not for a shag." She inhales sharply when his thumb presses against the right spot. "But this is …." He kisses her. Tastes her. Nuzzles her. "Well, it's … different."

The cat chooses that moment to bump her head against Chloe's shoulder, purring.

Chloe can't help the bark of laughter that pops loose.

"Shoo!" Lucifer says, scowling. " _Shoo_ , damn you!"

Chloe reaches up, splaying her fingers against his neck, stroking his pulse point. "Forget the cat. It's okay."

The cat slinks down their sides, rubbing, leaving fuzz sticking to their sweaty skin. A swishing gray tail whacks them in the hips once. Again.

"I didn't sign up for a threesome," Lucifer grumbles, scrubbing furiously at the fluff left behind.

She laughs again, pushing her fingers through his hair. " _Definitely_  never thought I'd hear the Devil say  _that_."

He looks at her. She looks at him. The skin around his eyes crinkles with amusement. A moment passes in silence. The cat slinks back to Chloe's face, rubbing, purring like an idling chainsaw against her ear, and they burst out laughing together.

"Perhaps I should hire a contractor to install a door," Lucifer says, peering at the empty space separating his bedroom from his living room. "You know. For  _basking_."

"I wouldn't complain," Chloe replies, sniggering.

With a sigh, she flops back against the bed and gives Cerberus a resigned scritch behind the ears. Climbing over Chloe, Lucifer scoops up the cat and slides off the bed with her. "I'll just … put her in the den for now," he muses aloud as he pads, naked, across the room.

With the sun disappearing below the horizon, the purple hues of a deepening twilight outline his body.

She rolls onto her side, enjoying the sinuous, muscle-clad view.

"On the bright side," he says, grinning back at her, "I'm sure I'll be  _up_  for more basking soon after I return."

She grins. "Pun, of course, intended."

"Of course!" he says brightly with a small, playful thrust of his hips.

She props her head on her elbow, staring unabashed at him.

"Naturally, I'll save you from the no-doubt  _painful_  frustration of that feline-aborted orgasm, first." Eyes twinkling, his expression grows mischievous. "Perhaps several times over, yes?" He frowns when she doesn't respond. Cerberus squirms in his grip, and he hugs her closer to his chest, gently stroking her head. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Chloe says, shaking her head. "Just …."

"Yes?"

She shrugs. On any other day, at any other moment, the sight of him, unclothed and disheveled, towering amongst the ruins of his bedroom, her bright lipstick crushed against his face and elsewhere, as he pets a damned cat he "hates," would make her laugh until she went hoarse. Today, though, the sight only makes her heart twist. She tries to find a word for what she's doing, staring at him, aching, feeling a kaleidoscope of things that make no sense at all, and yet couldn't be clearer than crystal.

Futzing with the hem of the top sheet, she settles on saying quietly, "Just basking."

His gaze softens, though he doesn't speak.

"Go put the cat away," she adds, letting herself squirm a little. "It  _is_  pretty frustrating."

He gives her a sympathetic look. "Be right back," he says with a wink. A flash of lucid white follows — a luminous ghost of bladed feathers — and then he's gone, along with the cat, just as the last hint of sunlight fades from the room.

* * *

The early morning light flooding through Lucifer's southward-facing windows wakes her, jarring her out of pleasant dreams. With a protesting moan, she snuggles deeper into the pillow. Soft, clean sheets rustle underneath her naked body. Her muscles ache. All of them. Her thighs throb where he gripped her. Her insides tingle pleasantly. All good things. Her bladder is full, and her throat feels like a desert crawled in overnight. Not so good. But she doesn't want to move, yet. Doesn't want to move  _ever_ , really. But ….

Her phone's alarm blares … somewhere. Somewhere … to the right. The acoustics in Lucifer's bedroom transform the chipper melody into something piercing.

"Hmm," she murmurs. "Lucifer?"

No response. She reaches across the mattress toward his side of the bed, but the blankets are cold. Squinting, she lifts her head. He isn't there.

Her stomach rumbles. She drops her legs over the side of the bed, setting her feet down on gelid marble. With the furniture strewn about, and the old, soiled sheets lying in a crumpled pile with a tangle of discarded clothes, the room seems as though a bomb exploded within.

She stretches, groaning as overworked muscles pull and protest.

She rifles through the sheets and the clothes, eventually locating her shrieking phone in her jeans pocket.

After making a brief pit stop in the bathroom and then grabbing one of his many silk robes to stave off the chill, she heads into the living area, only to stop short in the open doorway.

Lucifer's lying face down on his Italian-leather couch, beautifully naked and not-beautifully drooling onto a purple throw pillow. One ginormous wing is crunched up against the back cushions, its gleaming feathers bent and kinked. The other wing sprawls across the room, over the coffee table and chairs. The cat lies by the floor lamp, her fuzzy tummy exposed to the ceiling. She reaches up with extended claws to bat at one of the bladed feathers arching over the edge of his reading chair.

Hmm. After Chloe had dropped off to sleep, she hadn't heard him at all last night. Hadn't heard him tossing. Or yelling. Or leaving their bed.

Heart constricting, she approaches the sofa, taking the long way around to avoid bumping into his knife-like feathers. She crouches by his head, placing her palm on his cheek. He inhales sharply, but doesn't open his eyes.

"It happened again?" she says, grimacing.

His feathers twitch. "What bloody time is it?"

"It's 7," she replies. "We have to get going soonish." She bites her lip. "Or, well,  _I_  do.  _You_ don't have to. You can sleep if you want."

He cracks open an eyelid to peer at her. "I'm not letting you go alone. I said I wouldn't."

"But—" She glances at his wings. "—the basking didn't seem to help much?"

He sniffs, reaching up to rub his stubbly face. His eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his hair is a kinked, helter-skelter mess, thanks to the many times she grabbed it in the throes. He winces, and his right wing shifts. The brass centerpiece sitting on his coffee table slides off, banging onto the floor with a resounding clang.

"Bloody hell," he snaps, "would you  _stop_  biting my feathers?" His right shoulder jerks backward, and the whole wing cascades out of existence in a shining flash.

"Rowl?" says the cat from across the room. Her green eyes are wide and shellshocked.

His lip curls like he's snarling, though he doesn't make a sound. "Yes, you're quite lucky I didn't decapitate you, you cheeky little evolutionary nightmare."

"Rowl?" says the cat again, padding over.

Chloe hides a snicker behind her hand as he presses his face back into the pillow with a sigh, yet reaches to stroke Cerberus from head to tail, even going so far as to give her an extra scritch on her rump. The cat's tail and butt bop upward in response, and then the rattling high-decibel purrs begin. She turns for another pass, though Lucifer ceases offering active input, and the cat essentially ends up using Lucifer's lax fingertips to pet herself.

Chloe leans close to kiss his temple. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Mmm," he says listlessly into the pillow.

"Wore you out, huh?" she says, grinning.

"My everything hurts. And I'm not even bloody hungover."

"Sorry," she says. Though she isn't. Not really. The night before had been mind blowing. Fortifying. Reassuring. Wholly mutual. And perfect. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm a wreck, too. Definitely missing the spryness of my twenties."

His upper body hitches as he scoffs. "Well, then, how should  _I_  feel?"

"Um." She kisses him. "At death's door?" She kisses him again. "Definitely."

"I would rather not picture my sister watching what we did last night."

She snorts. "Okay, maybe like Westley. Only  _mostly_  dead."

Another breathy half-laugh blusters from his lips. "As you wish."

"You  _sure_  you wanna do this?" she prods, petting the cat with her free hand.

"I said that I would, and I  _will_ ," he grumbles without looking up. "In a minute." He presses into his pillow. "Perhaps five."

Sniggering, she squeezes his shoulder and rises to her feet. His left wing, still kinked against the back of the couch, remains on display. Cerberus jumps onto the middle cushion and stretches out along his bared ribs, which expand and contract in a slow, even rhythm. The cat bats haphazardly with an outstretched paw at the closest feather.

"Bloody …," he mutters into the pillow but doesn't move and doesn't push the purring cat away.

"I think she likes the part about you being a divine radiator," Chloe says. "And also the bestest cat toy."

He harrumphs. "She's lucky you're here, or she'd break her bloody teeth on me."

With a laugh, Chloe leaves him to his "five more minutes."

_How is this her life?_  she finds herself asking once again as she steps under his massive raincan showerhead. Yet, at the same time, as the water pours down around her, she finds she can't conceptualize how this could ever  _not_  be her life, anymore, either. And when Lucifer steps into the shower behind her, and she sinks into his embrace, she's left only with the pleasant congruity that this is where she's meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [Art by Aelwen](https://aelwen-art.tumblr.com/)


	8. It's the Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack! Title credit for this chapter goes to Within Temptation. Thanks as always to everybody who takes the time to leave me feedback, whether that be in kudos or comment form. Enjoy :D

"Good morning to you," Chloe sings into the receiver to the tune of  _Happy Birthday._ She's been taking great pains to call Trixie over breakfast and at bedtime whenever Trixie stays at Dan's. Just to help her settle into the fact that Mommy's not going anywhere. "Good morning to you. Good morning, little monkey. Good morning to you."

"You  _promise_ I'll see you tonight?" Trixie says, her doubt a palpable, hefty weight tugging down on each syllable.

Chloe nods. "Pinky swear!"

Trixie laughs. "Mommy, you can't pinky swear over the phone!"

"Well, I cross my heart, then, yeah?" Chloe drags her index finger over the left side of her chest, drawing an X. She sits on the lid of the toilet in Lucifer's massive bathroom as he primps and preens for the wall-to-wall mirror. Between his hair products, cologne collection, makeup, flat iron, blow dryer, razors, and vast array of shaving creams and aftershaves, he has no counter space left. Glass bottles, metal cans, doodads, gadgets, and various cords cover the entire surface. She had  _no_ idea his morning grooming ritual was so involved. "And after you do your homework, we can watch whatever movie you want, okay?'

" _Any_  movie?"

Chloe nods again as Lucifer pulls a brush through his hair, slicking the wet strands to his scalp. "Within reason. I'll even make popcorn."

"I like popcorn!"

She grins. "I know you do."

Across the line, a voice murmurs in the background. Trixie says something, but not to the receiver. A sigh blusters into the speaker. "Daddy's making me give the phone over, because we're late."

Chloe's grin widens. "Okay, babe. I love you!"

"Love you, too!"

Another blast of noise floods the line, and then Dan clears his throat. "So, I'm gonna drop her off around 5:30. Sound good?"

"Yep. All good here. See you tonight!"

A pause. "Hey, Chlo?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful today, okay?" Dan says, sounding tired. "I really don't want a phone call from the precinct about you."

Her heart clenches. "I promise."

When she hangs up the phone, she finds Lucifer staring at her in the mirror.

"What?" she asks.

He shrugs. "You should sing more often. You've a lovely voice."

The silk bathrobe she borrowed from him is long enough to hit her calves. Her face heats as she futzes with a seam. "Thanks."

"I only speak truth." The blow dryer turns on with a hum that echoes in the marbled expanse.

She watches with morbid fascination as he runs his fingers through his hair. Pre-product, his locks fluff up like feathers on a disgruntled bird. "Hey," she says, frowning.

He turns to her, eyebrows raised.

"If you're invulnerable when you're not around me, how in the hell do you normally shave?"

A grin oozes across his face. "Hair is dead, darling. Even mine. Stab it with your steely knives, and it will  _always_ leave."

"Oh." Well, that makes as much sense as anything does, these days. "Huh."

"When I shave," he adds, "I shave before bed, though." He strokes his stubbly chin. "Helps keep the five o'clock shadow sitch—oh, now there's a tongue twister—going all waking hours."

She snorts, amused. "Seriously, I had  _no_ idea your whole sexy-scruffy-Devil schtick was this much work."

"As a rule," he replies with a wink, "low-effort scruffy merely looks disheveled. Not sexy."

Which … okay. Point.

He turns back to the mirror.

She licks her lips, unabashedly watching the show.

* * *

The garage behind Lux smells of oil and exhaust. As they climb into her car, which is parked next to Lucifer's in a "RESERVED: V.I.P." space, he folds down the front visor to inspect himself, and she has a moment of internal hilarity. The actual Devil — Satan himself — checking his eyeliner in her mirror. Satan, whom she'd just watched flat-iron and sculpt his hair for more than thirty minutes. Like … what even? This whole morning has been one long blur of surreality.

"So, what's your take on the investigation?" Lucifer asks, turning to her. He flips the visor back up, apparently satisfied with his maquillage.

"Well, my gut tells me something is up with Rog," Chloe replies as she backs out of the parking space, the car rumbling like thunder in the enclosed area. "I don't know what. But he's far too easy to wind up. Anything about jumping, falling, dying, and he turns into a basket case."

Lucifer nods. "I'd noticed that, yes."

"So, until we have more access to the other instructor and the pilot," she muses, "I guess we keep winding him up, just to see what snaps loose?"

"Agreed," he says as she pulls out onto the street, and morning sunshine slants in through the windows. Something crinkles in his lap. Movement flutters in her peripheral vision. "Breakfast bar?"

She glances at the proffered gift, loosing a soft snort. "That's a Snickers."

"Your point?"

"My point is … Starbucks."

"Ah," he replies with a nod. "Yes, yes, get your zero-calorie almond-milk swill."

* * *

When they arrive at Top Flight, the sun is just peeking over the palm trees lining the parking lot. The shuttle — a big blue Ford Expedition — that will transport them to the airstrip sits along the curb, rumbling. The hot exhaust spilling from the tailpipe blasts Chloe's calves as she walks past, Lucifer lumbering behind with a steaming Starbucks cup clutched in either hand.

"What do you  _mean_ , we can't get on the shuttle?" Chloe says minutes later as she leans against the lacquered, chest-high lip of the reception desk.

The raspberry-haired receptionist looks over the edges of her teal-colored glasses. "Well, you didn't attend the entire preparatory class."

"That's preposterous," Lucifer says as he sets their coffees down. "We only missed the last few minutes."

"They were important minutes," says the receptionist. "You didn't even sign the release forms at the end!"

"Well, we'll bloody sign them, now," Lucifer retorts. "It's not like I can crash, after all, given I don't need a plane to fly, let alone a parachute to glide. And she already knows how—" Chloe gives him a silent, pleading look.  _Undercover_ , she mouths behind her hand.  _Remember?_ "—um. She already knows … how … much I've … thought about this the past few days." His grin is a garish grimace. "I mean, the anticipation has been simply  _eating_  at me — frankly we're beyond foreplay and into torture. I haven't been able to sleep!" He pounds the countertop. "My dear, we cannot miss it!"

Chloe leans against him, pasting on a simpering smile as she strokes his arm. "Isn't there  _something_ we can do?"

The receptionist gives them a flat, unimpressed look. "You can take the beginner class again in two weeks."

"Unacceptable!" says Lucifer.

"We were hoping to be working on our solo dive licenses by then," adds Chloe.

The receptionist frowns, holding up a sheet of notebook paper scrawled over with angry, half-legible ink. The word crazy is underlined four times, inept twice. "Also," the receptionist continues, "Mr. Simmons said absolutely not to let you come today, or he quits."

Chloe rolls her eyes. "Well,  _that's_  a little extreme."

"All because I'm not graceful in a bloody windtunnel?" Lucifer adds, scowling.

She gives him a placating pat on the shoulder. "I think it's probably because you terrified him, dear."

"But what of  _my_ terror?" Lucifer counters. "He assaulted my person. Am I not the more important aggrieved party in this tragic misunderstanding? The customer is always right — isn't that what you silly capitalists always say?"

The receptionist's unamused expression doesn't even twitch. "He touched your back to keep you from floating away, sir. He didn't assault you."

"He's really not that scary," Chloe says, giving Lucifer a theatrical hug. "Honest. He's just a big … fluffy—"

"Devil," Lucifer blurts.

"Riiight," says the receptionist.

"Oh, this is just …." With a scoff, he leans forward. An oily smile tugs at his lips, replacing his miffed expression. "Ms. Darby," he purrs as he crooks his finger, "look at me, will you?"

The receptionist's jaw lolls a bit as she's caught in his thrall.

"That's right," Lucifer says. "That's a good girl."

She grins, blushing.

"We simply  _must_  attend this dive," Lucifer continues, the words sliding down Chloe's spine like a silk caress. "It's a matter of safety, you see. Not ours, but potentially someone else's. And that's important to you, my dear, is it not?"

"Totally," the receptionist confirms, staring dreamily at him.

"So … is there something you desire in exchange for letting us attend? A little tit for tat, perhaps? I promise, almost  _anything_  goes."

" _Anything_?"

Lucifer nods. "Anything but me. I'm rather off the market at the moment."

The receptionist swallows. "I …."

"Yes?" he says, leaning closer. "Tell me that pervading, secret little desire you have, and I'll see what I can do for you."

"I …."

"Yes?" he prods. His stare is hypnotic, and even though Chloe can't feel his actual mojo working, she can feel his presence, thick and crushing in her chest, like someone turned up a subwoofer. Holy shit. She grits her teeth, shifting uncomfortably, as he cranks the dial on whatever he's doing. "Your deepest, darkest little want. I'd  _love_ to know."

"Would you …?" the receptionist begins before trailing away.

He leans closer still. "Yes?"

"Would you … take me to the opera in Venice?"

"What?" he blurts, drawing back.

The receptionist sighs. "I've always wanted to go to the opera in Venice, but my husband hates traveling, and getting him to wear a suit is like subjecting him to waterboarding. It's awful. I just want to experience some culture with somebody who'd actually fucking enjoy it. Is that so much to ask?"

Lucifer glances at Chloe. "Well, I did say I was off the market …."

"Jeez, I didn't mean like  _that_ ," the receptionist is quick to scoff, sounding scandalized. "Waterboarding issues aside, I'm happily married, I'll have you know!" She sets her head down on her hands, looking glumly into space. "I just want to see the Venetian opera with a pretty man in a pretty suit. And you're—" She sighs, swallowing again. "—really,  _really_  pretty."

"Well, I …." Lucifer frowns, seemingly stunned into silence. "Thank … you?"

"You're welcome. Is that Prada?"

He brushes his sleeves, straightening his gleaming cufflinks. "It is, in fact. A good eye you have."

"I  _love_  Prada."

"And the Devil does indeed wear it," he replies with an empty but beguiling smile before leaning to the side. By Chloe's ear, he murmurs, "Do you perchance fancy a trip to Venice with me, sans one evening when I'll be operatically indisposed?"

Chloe fights the urge to burst out laughing, managing a mangled snort, instead, before whispering back, "I've never been to Italy. Could be fun." She grins. "I could spend your opera night getting gelato and wine with a bored gondolier."

"Right, then," he says. He shifts back to the reception desk, smiling the empty smile again, and holds out his hand for a shake. "One night at  _Teatro La Fenice_ , hanging off my perfectly tailored arm to your poor deprived heart's content, in exchange for pretending we signed the release forms, and allowing us to board the shuttle today, Mr. Simmons's silly, hysterical objections notwithstanding. Have we a deal?"

* * *

Chloe, Lucifer, and Akwasi Sarpong, the weed aficionado, pack tightly into the backseat of the S.U.V. shuttle to Top Flight's private airstrip in Simi Valley. When they arrive, Roger Simmons is already waiting, along with two instructors Chloe hasn't met yet, and the three students who dove earlier in the morning. The students' excited chatter crescendos as Akwasi opens the backseat door and climbs out onto the pavement. Rog, who hovers by the car door with a clipboard in hand, squints with bloodshot eyes at his sheaf of papers, and then makes a mark with his pen. Wind ruffles the tip of his ponytail, and the late-morning light sets him in sharp relief.

When Chloe steps onto the cracked asphalt behind Akwasi, Rog does a double take, looking up once from his clipboard without seeming to take in the sight of her, and then once again with far more alarm. "You're not supposed to be here!" he snaps. "Why are  _you_  here?"

"… To skydive?" Chloe says with an innocent blink.

Then Lucifer exits the S.U.V. behind her. Rog fixates on Lucifer's shoes, at first. Red-soled black Louboutins. Which don't go at all with a flight suit, but ….

"Hello, Rog-y. So glad we could …." Lucifer's smile turns wolfish as he brushes off his sleeves to straighten them. "Dearie me, you seem rather  _stressed_. Are you quite all right?"

"Why?" is the only word, plaintive and small-but-wailing, that Rog can muster.

"Is there a problem here?" says a woman wearing an instructor's flight suit as she approaches. Her hair is wavy and blond.

"No problem," says Chloe.

" _Everything_ here is a problem," bemoans Rog.

The woman holds out her hand, which Chloe shakes.

"Annie Wroth," the woman says.

The owner. With the flimsy book-reading alibi. Another potential suspect.

"Cleo Post," replies Chloe. She gestures to Lucifer. "And this is my boyfriend, Luke Iver."

Rog interjects, "Luke, my  _ass_!"

Lucifer's eyes tick downward. "No, thank you. Not at all my type."

"Can I  _help_  you two?" Ms. Wroth asks more stridently, folding her arms over her chest.

"I don't know," Lucifer purrs, shifting his attention to her. "Can you, my dear?"

She gives Lucifer an unimpressed look, and then turns to Rog as Akwasi ambles past to join up with the flight instructor closest to the plane. "What's going on, Rog?"

"It's  _them,_ " Rog says, wild-eyed as he jabs his thumb in Lucifer and Chloe's direction.

"Um. Right." Ms. Wroth grimaces, holding up an index finger, then adds half conspiratorially, half apologetically, and yet somehow entirely censoriously, "Excuse us one moment, please."

She and Rog step off to the side of the runway. The breeze picks up, and the green clumps of weeds and scattered dandelions lining the edges of the pavement sway and shiver. Rog starts gesticulating wildly, cursing, but Chloe can't make out the words, thanks to the roar of the wind.

The cat-with-the-canary mirth drips from Lucifer's face, though. "It would seem yesterday's—" His lip curls like he smelled dirty socks. "—theatrics … may genuinely have impacted our ability to continue with this investigation."

Chloe frowns. "Well, I mean, I wouldn't call what happened yesterday  _theatrics_ , exactly …."

"Pardon?"

She shrugs. "It's not like you can decide, 'Oh, hey, today, I won't be triggered.'"

"I was not  _triggered_ ," he insists. "That is a human—"

"Whatever you want to call it, Lucifer." She steps closer. "And it's okay. If they kick us out, we'll deal."

He grits his teeth. "Dare I ask how?"

She shrugs again. "Dan said Ms. Wroth was pretty solicitous with him. Maybe, we can tell her the full score."

"And if  _she's_ the murderer?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at her. "Then what?"

"Then telling her about our cover might actually be a good thing," Chloe says. "Because if Ms. Wroth thinks we're solely focused on Mr. Simmons and the pilot as potential suspects, she might slip up and reveal something."

Lucifer doesn't reply, instead shifting his gaze to a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. Against the unbroken blue sky above, he seems paler than he should. Gaunter.

"You're  _sure_ you're okay to do this?" Chloe prods gently. "Absolutely sure?"

He nods at Rog and Ms. Wroth, who are still conferring. "That would seem a rather moot question, at this point."

"Lucifer."

Lucifer peers down the runway to where the idling plane is parked. She clasps his right palm between hers to give it a squeeze. She barely has an eyeblink to register that his skin feels like melting glaciers — gelid and clammy — before he's yanking his hand away and then stuffing both of his clenched fists into his pockets.

"Lucifer," she repeats, concern burgeoning.

"I'll be all right."

" _Lucifer_."

"I said I will do this, and I will," he grits out, deep and midnight dark as his expression hardens. "I'm a man of my—"

"Your intent is to catch me if something goes wrong," she counters, pressing close. "Because you don't want me to fall like you did. Right?"

His nod is infinitesimal.

She gently grips his wrists, since his hands are still hidden away, shielded by his pockets. "You've got wings, Lucifer. You can catch me just as easily taking off from the ground as you can from a plane." She looks up at him, searching his face, but he's giving her nothing. Not even a blink. "You're  _here_.  _That's_  the important part.  _That's_  the word you're keeping. And you can still be here if you're on the ground. So, if you need to be grounded for this case, be grounded. Yeah?"

"I …."

"Sorry for the interruption," Ms. Wroth says to the right, breaking the spell.

Lucifer sighs.

Chloe pinches the bridge of her nose, suddenly enervated. "So, are you planning to boot us?"

"No," Ms. Wroth replies. She frowns, looking surreptitiously over her shoulder at Rog. "He's got some damned fool idea that Mr. Iver is the Devil. Which … I mean … is obviously ridiculous."

"Oh, but I—"

Chloe jabs Lucifer in the ribs with her elbow before he can finish speaking. She ejects a false, cackling little laugh that makes her cringe inside, but she forces herself to sell it with a smile that might be a grimace. "The  _Devil_. Oh, that's so funny!" She gives Lucifer an expectant look, adding through clenched teeth, "Isn't it funny _, Luke?_ "

"Well, I'm certain there's a punchline somewhere," Lucifer adds drily.

"Yeah, I know, right?" Ms. Wroth replies, shaking her head. "Look, I'm really sorry about this. I'll make sure he dives with Mr. Sarpong, not either of you two." She glances at her watch. "Anyway, we're running late, now. Talk to me afterward, if you're planning to come back—"

"Oh, we definitely are," Chloe says. "We want to get our A licenses."

Ms. Wroth beams. "Excellent! I'll give you a $20 credit on your next lesson package!"

"Thank you!" replies Chloe.

She and Lucifer share a look as Ms. Wroth heads down the long runway toward the plane, clapping her hands as she goes like she's trying to herd sheep. Akwasi and the third instructor follow. Lucifer takes a step toward the plane as well.

"Lucifer," Chloe says softly, grabbing his sleeve. The breeze whips the dandelions back and forth, filling her peripheral vision with brilliant yellow. He turns once more to look at her. "Are you  _sure?_ "

"I'm certain, Detective," he replies, looking her in the eyes, "that we've a killer to catch." He nods toward Rog, who's still sulking by the S.U.V. "He thinks I'm the Devil; well, I say let me be the Devil for him, then. And I can't do that from the ground."

"You mean you actually  _want_ to play up the … um—" She clears her throat. "—the pitchfork angle?"

"Why, yes," Lucifer says, a predatory grin oozing into place. "Yes, exactly. You humans. Always with your assumptions. Might as well make use of them, yes?"

"That could definitely work," she has to admit. And it's not something she ever would have suggested, either. Not to him. Particularly not now. Not so soon after their ordeal in the woods ….  _The other side of me. It's bad._ She touches his arm, looking up at him. "But are you sure that's a role you want to play right now?"

"He saw me, Detective. The experience tends to initiate self-reevaluation." He licks his lips like he's licking his chops. "I merely intend to nudge him along. To … give him Hell, so to speak."

"Lucifer, you didn't answer my question."

The cold determination leaks out of his expression, replaced by warmth. "I'm … all right with it. Truly. Recent events have …." He shrugs. "Well, let's just say the basking might not have helped with … with gravity-related issues, but it's certainly helped with  _that_."

His words twist her heart in a good way, and she fights not to let the sudden warmth filling her to the brim overflow. Blinking back the painful sensation pricking behind her eyeballs, she admits softly, "That's really great."

"So, Detective," he replies, "game on, then?"

"Yeah. Let's do this."

After sharing a resolved look, they turn toward the plane.

* * *

The interior of the plane isn't like a commercial jet. Rather than row upon row of seats crammed together like the concertgoers trapped in a mosh pit for Nirvana, the cabin area consists mostly of empty gunmetal-gray-colored space, ideal for setting up and double checking parachute gear. The seats — more like benches, really — line the wall on either side of the open space.

If Lucifer is still upset about the idea of parachuting, he makes no indication as he belts into his seat — even his fingers aren't shaking anymore. Rog, one of the last ones to climb onto the plane, gives Lucifer a narrow-eyed, distrustful look.

"Hello, again," Lucifer says, directing a charming grin in Rog's direction. "All set to drop a body, then?"

"What does  _that_  mean?" Rog snaps.

"Well, isn't that your job? To supervise descents?"

"Oh," Rog says, deflating. "I thought …." He sighs, giving himself a visible shake. "Never mind."

Lucifer rubs his fingers along his chin. "I suppose we've that in common. In fact, I'd almost call our meeting kismet if it weren't for the circumstances."

"What do you …?" He trails away, only to repeat with encroaching desperation, " _What_  circumstances?"

Like a shark, Lucifer's eyes are black and bleak and, in that moment, soulless. He gives Rog a sharp look, his lips spreading wide in a slow, feral grin. "Mortal sin, of course."

"And what does  _that_ mean?" Rog demands, his voice rising in pitch.

Lucifer shrugs. "Well, some might say it's  _my_  job to supervise descents as well, Mr. Simmons."

Rog's eyes widen. A tiny, panicked sound loiters in his throat as he backs up a step, and then another, almost tripping.

Chloe shivers. Lucifer, she reminds herself. Lucifer. Not human. Occasional perpetrator of the uncanny valley effect. But still Lucifer. Her Lucifer. The guy who was primping in her mirror and offering her a Snickers bar just that morning. The guy who was letting his cat bite his feathers, of all things.

"You'll be diving with Mr. Sarpong, yes?" Lucifer continues, nonchalant.

Rog nods, though the movement is jerky enough to look like a seizure.

"Yeah!" chimes in Akwasi, pumping his fists. "This is gonna be epic!"

"Epic, indeed, Mr. Sarpong," Lucifer says, settling back against his seat, watching Rog with unblinking eyes. "I daresay even  _revelatory_. Particularly for those with guilty consciences."

Rog cringes.

"Why would I feel guilty?" says Akwasi, wide-eyed.

"I've  _no_  idea." Lucifer winks at Rog before turning his attention toward the grad student. "You tell me."

"I … didn't share my blunt with Tina last night."

Lucifer makes a tsk tsk tsk noise. "How terrible of you."

"I mean …  _everyone_  knows it's puff puff pass." Akwasi looks at his shoes. "But … I didn't."

"An easy error to correct, at least." Raising his eyebrows, Lucifer shifts his attention back to Rog. "After all,  _she's_  still alive to accept the veritable  _pile_  of bleezies you'll no doubt offer her in apology, isn't she?"

"Right?" Akwasi replies, nodding. "I'll do that tonight."

"Good man."

Rog — jittery, stumbling — skirts the opposite edge of the plane, as far away from Lucifer as possible, and settles into the last seat, his profile obstructed by Ms. Wroth.

Chloe leans over, tipping her mouth toward Lucifer's ear. "Good going," she assures him under her breath, just in case he felt her disquiet.

His disturbing grimace/grin widens. He doesn't have time to respond, though. The plane lurches forward, starting to taxi, and his hands fly to his seat to clutch the cushion.

"Here we go!" Ms. Wroth exclaims. "Is everybody excited for their first dive?"

Neither Lucifer nor Rog say a word, but Akwasi's very real claps and cheers, and Chloe's very fake ones, are enough to camouflage the grave chill in the atmosphere. As the plane gains speed, Lucifer manages to school himself, resting his hands calmly on his thighs, rather than clinging to the seat, though his grimace doesn't abate so much as contort into something more resembling a real smile. Chloe reaches across the small gap between their seats, resting her hand next to his.

The plane lifts.

The vibration of the landing gear screaming across pavement ceases.

And then they're flying.

* * *

When they reach cruising altitude, they're allowed to leave their seats to prepare. Rog and Lucifer are like the opposite ends of a magnet. If Lucifer tries to stalk closer to his mark, Rog worms his way away. Impressive, given how small the plane is, and how little room there is to maneuver. Chloe takes advantage of the cramped space, placing herself into Rog's inevitable path at the opposite end of the plane, and of course, he flounders right into her in the process of dodging Lucifer.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he blurts on impact.

"Gosh, it's so high," Chloe gushes, ignoring him as she peers out the little window. Gaping, she presses the pads of her fingertips against the cold, stretched acrylic. "How high is that again, Rog?"

"Uh. About 12,000 feet."

"I'm so nervous," she says, pouting at him. "What if I freak out and don't remember to deploy my chute?"

"Well … that's why we don't let first timers jump solo."

"And  _you'll_ be there with me?"

"Um." He clears his throat so forcefully he sounds like he's choking on his tongue. "Um. No, ma'am," he croaks when he regains his voice. "I believe S-S-Sean will be diving with you." He nods toward the third instructor, the one instructor on this flight who they have a solid alibi for. Sean and Akwasi are conversing in the corner with Annie Wroth. "Not me."

Chloe sighs, shaking her head as she peers into endless sky. "I bet if I fell without the chute, there'd be nothing left of me after I landed." She bites her lip. "Have you ever seen what was left of a jumper?"

"A  _jumper_?" Rog barks.

She turns to him. "Like a suicide jumper?"

"I … I-I haven't."

"Oh, it's  _gruesome_. And super tragic. Just  _heart_ wrenching." And then she adds with a tremulous voice, "Did you know the human body behaves a bit like a water balloon when it hits the pavement too hard?"

"I …." He shifts from foot to foot, agitated, pale. "N-no."

"I would  _hate_ to die like that," she presses. "Wouldn't you?"

His pallor is like flour, white and sickly and absent of life. Even his lips are colorless. "Um. Yes. It's t-truly awful." Then he skitters away, disappearing into the lavatory.

* * *

Ms. Wroth selects Chloe and Sean to dive first, with Akwasi and Rog next, and Lucifer and Ms. Wroth last. When the door at the back of the plane rumbles open, bitter cold wind screams into the cabin. The distant ground is a broad curve swathed in desert-y drab greens and washed-out beiges. Wispy cirrus clouds and airplane contrails snake along the sky overhead, but out front and below … nothing but clear blue and bright sun.

"Yes, yes,  _yes_!" yells Akwasi, laughing. "Epic! I'm tellin' you."

"Like the Hindenburg, I'm sure," Lucifer snarks, expressionless, from his seat.

Chloe clips her carabiner to the wall beside the door, listening as Sean provides a few last minute pointers and assurances. Her parachute sits tight against her back, and her dive helmet cups her head. She turns to the scattered group behind her, grinning breathlessly.

"Any last words?" Ms. Wroth jokes as she takes a picture.

"It's the last opportunity to confess your sins, darling," Lucifer calls. "In case of disaster, I mean."

"Oh, come on, now," Ms. Wroth admonishes. "There won't be any disasters today."

Lucifer shrugs. "One never knows."

"What sins need to be confessed?" Chloe asks, playing along.

"Indeed," Lucifer says, bringing his dark gaze to bear on Rog. "There's a special place in Hell for liars, murderers, betrayers all. Anyone with too much guilt, really. Have  _you_ any guilt?"

"Guilt?" Chloe blurts, splaying a palm to her chest. "Who,  _me_?"

"Me?" echoes Rog in a raspier voice.

"I know guilt when I see it," purrs Lucifer. "It's unmistakable. Sometimes, it even has a stench." He leans toward Rog to take a sniff. "Rather like a rot. Festering. Malignant."

"What the hell?" says Ms. Wroth.

"Hell." Lucifer's grin stretches wide. " _Precisely_."

"What do you  _mean,_  I smell like rot!" Chloe says, batting her eyelashes in shock. "Honey, how  _could_ you? You said you  _liked_ this perfume!"

"No, no," Lucifer says. "The smell isn't coming from you. More like …." His fingers drift between Akwasi, Sean, Rog, and Ms. Wroth, in a graceful eenie-meenie-minie motion. Every time he drifts past Rog, Lucifer's pregnant pause gets longer. "Like …."

"Why are you  _hounding_ me?" Rog wails, his voice cracking with strain.

Bingo.

He turns to Lucifer. " _Why_ , God, damn it?"

"God isn't here, Mr. Simmons." Lucifer stands, rising to his full height as he twists his ring around his finger. " _I_  am." Rog looks up from his seat, swallowing repeatedly. "So, why don't you tell me why I've been summoned here."

"S-s-summoned?"

"That is what I said, yes." Lucifer clasps his hand around Rog's shoulder. "You know who I am. What I'm here to do."

"No. No, you're not. You're  _not—_ " Rog scowls, his ponytail flopping as he shakes his head. "You're undercover cops. I  _know_  you're cops. I've known since you walked in yesterday."

"Aw, man," says Akwasi, giving Chloe and Lucifer a dirty look, "you're fuckin' pigs? Not cool."

"Where'd you get that idea?" Chloe says, frowning.

"Oh, come  _on_!" Rog snaps, nearly falling out of his seat as he tries to scramble away. "Everybody saw your pictures on the news! Detective and civilian consultant kidnapped." He gestures at Lucifer. "You're not really the Devil. You're that nightclub owner with the whole persona schtick, and you're fucking  _delusional_."

"Really. Not. Cool," decides Akwasi.

Lucifer tilts his head, advancing toward Rog, who stumbles backward. "Are you so certain of that, Mr. Simmons? That I'm delusional?"

Rog bumps into the bulkhead in his haste to get away. "I …."

"What you saw yesterday couldn't have been a delusion on my part, could it?"

"I …."

Lucifer's torso and neck blocks Rog's face from view. "Perhaps you'd like to see my 'delusions' again?"

"I …."

Lucifer's back is to everyone but Rog, at this point.

Rog twitches. Screams. Sinks to his knees. "No! No, no, no," he wails, dropping to the floor and prostrating himself at Lucifer's feet in abject, hysterical surrender. "Please, no. I didn't mean to do it. Neither of us did. It was an accident! Please, it was an accident. We didn't wanna get fired, so we didn't say anything. Please, don't take me to Hell. Please, don't."

Sean blinks. "What in the …?"

"Roger, what is he  _talking_  about?" Ms. Wroth adds, dazed.

"I dislike beggars, Mr. Simmons," Lucifer continues, undeterred. He hoists Rog to his feet by the top buttons of his flight suit, like the man weighs nothing. "What  _precisely_  was an accident?"

"Tommy. Tommy fell. He f-f-fell right in front of me," Rog wails, tears streaming down his face. "Rache and I took him up for a night dive—"

" _What_?" snaps Ms. Wroth. "Mr. Widow didn't even have his A license, yet, let alone a B!"

"He paid us both, so we took him up," Rog says, trembling. "I was looking at him one minute. I turned around to grab something from my duffel. When I turned back, he was gone, and his parachute pack was still on his chair!"

"Are you saying he jumped?" Chloe says.

" _I don't know_!" Rog wails. "I don't know if he jumped, or if he fell. All I know is that he was gone!"

Lucifer scoffs, "How bloody convenient."

"Please, that's the truth!" Lucifer sets Rog down, and his trembling body flops against the bulkhead. "Rache didn't file a flight plan because he wasn't authorized for a night dive, yet. We shouldn't have done it. I  _know_  we shouldn't have, but …."

"But you're greedy," Lucifer says.

"No! I mean … yes. I mean …."

Chloe unclips her carabiner, so she can inch closer. The wind at her back lessens.

"And then you let him fall without even trying to help," Lucifer continues. "You discarded him — discarded his memory — to make your life in the aftermath more convenient. All so you wouldn't be  _disciplined_ like he was. You  _abandoned_ him."

"No! I mean …." Rog's lower lip trembles. He sniffs, the sound wet and bubbly. Spittle dribbles down his chin. "I mean … wait … what?" He looks up at Lucifer before adding in a tiny, frantic voice, "I mean, please,  _please_ , don't take me to Hell."

"Why the bloody hell shouldn't I?" snaps Lucifer. "An eye for an eye, after all. He fell. Why shouldn't  _you_?"

"Please, I'm  _sorry_!"

"Lucifer," Chloe murmurs, stepping in. His arm is wrought-iron under her palm. She squeezes her fingers gently against his flexing bicep. "Enough. We got him."

At first, Lucifer seems too far gone to listen. His teeth clench, and his upper lip pulls back into a hateful sneer.

"Lucifer, enough."

With a bitter scoff, Lucifer stalks away.

Rog slinks along the wall, shaking, sobbing. Guilty. "Maybe, I do deserve Hell," he wails. "Maybe, I do." A stain darkens the front of his flight suit at the crotch. Wet. He wet himself. "Maybe, I do."

Her heart constricts. If what he says is true, he's no murderer. The worst he and the pilot could be charged with is involuntary manslaughter. She can't imagine the kind of pain he's been in, thinking whatever happened was solely his fault. And here she and Lucifer have been, winding him up for two days straight.

Roger Simmons needed to be caught, but ….

She rubs her face with her hands. This is one of those days where her job feels empty. Like there can't be any justice because there's no justice to be had. Instead, she only feels dirty.

With a sigh, she fishes her badge from her pocket. Pulling Ms. Wroth aside, Chloe says, "I'm very sorry, but I'm gonna have to ask you to land this plane, so we can take Mr. Simmons in for questioning."

Stunned, Ms. Wroth can only nod and reach shakily for the intercom button on the wall. "Hey, um …." She swallows. "Hey, Rache?"

"What's up, boss?" crackles a female voice over the intercom.

Rog has slinked all the way to the farthest seat. The one closest to the open plane door. "Maybe, I do," he keeps warbling, rocking himself back and forth in a self-soothing motion.

"Mr. Simmons, will you please clip in?" Chloe asks, instincts pinging. She gestures at Sean, who steps closer to Rog to supervise. Rog clips in, attaching his carabiner to the ring next to his seat. "And, Sean, will you close the flight door?"

"Sure thing," says Sean.

When Chloe turns back to her, Ms. Wroth is saying, "Rache, we need to turn arou—"

A loud metallic squeal fills the cabin, followed by a cacophonous bang, bang,  _bang_ , and then another squeal. Through the tiny porthole window, Chloe sees something glinting and metal fly off the underside of the wing, near the engine. The whole plane dips, swooping so suddenly her intestines feel like they'll end up into her throat. A chorus of startled shouts and screams fill the tiny cabin.

And then … quiet. The plane rights itself in moments.

"Sorry folks," comes Rache's voice again. "So sorry. We're fine. We're completely fine. Looks like we've had a really nasty bird strike, but everything is absolutely fine. Please, stay calm. I know that was a bit of a jolt." The plane lurches left. Chloe jams a hand against the wall to keep her balance. The engine on the right wing is smoking faintly. "I'm taking us back to the airstrip, now."

Nausea coils in Chloe's gut as the sudden adrenaline bath recedes, leaving ruin in its wake.

"Where's Roger?" Ms. Wroth snaps.

Chloe shifts her attention to the back of the plane. Sean is on the floor, out cold, Rog's unclipped carabiner half hooked over his ear. A lurid trickle of red runs down his temple. The flight door remains open. And Rog is gone.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck, fuck,  _fuck_.

"Lucifer," Chloe blurts. "Lucifer, he jumped. Rog beaned Sean and jumped."

When Lucifer doesn't respond, she whips a one-eighty. Her breath catches in her throat, and her stomach plummets out the flight door behind her. Because there Lucifer sits. Hunched on the floor by the first bulkhead, his gleaming wings spread wide, feathers bent and bowed against the opposite walls of the far-too-narrow plane. Like he tried to catch himself.

And Akwasi, wide-eyed, pointing, stands there in the no-man's land between Devil and divers. "Ho … ly …  _fuck_. There's no  _way_  this is weed."


	9. Ten Million Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title credit goes to Black Lab. Enjoy!

He keeps his eyes clamped shut, and he's graveyard quiet. Thought leaves her, and the plane cabin seems to fuzz around the edges. No. No, no. She bulls Akwasi aside — Lucifer flinches at the sharp movement — and she intercedes into the scant space between Akwasi and Lucifer.

"Sorry, it's me," she blurts as she lowers herself to the airplane floor, scooting close, but careful not to touch him. "It's just me." But he doesn't acknowledge her. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't anything. Like the sudden drop terrified him into nonfunction. "Lucifer."

"Lucifer as in Satan?" says Akwasi, almost a squeak.

"Lucifer, we didn't fall," she rushes to say as Akwasi adds, "As in  _Satan_ Satan?"

Her heart jumps like a rabbit in her chest. "You didn't fall. Nobody fell." Except for Rog. "Everything is fine. We're all fine." Except for Rog. "Just take a deep breath through your nose and count to three."

"Like Al Pacino playing that lawyer dude, but the lawyer is a cop, and it's real?"

"Remember like we did in the woods?" She inhales, trying not to shake apart in time to Akwasi's stunned babbling. Two. Three. "And then blow it out through your mouth, and count to three." She exhales. Two. Three.

"Satan is  _real_?"

Lucifer presses his face against the bulkhead like he wants to get away from her. His pallor matches his immaculate feathers, which twitch like he's a pile of trapped kinetic energy. Like he's a bomb, ticking down to zero. She makes herself slide back a foot, trying to give him a little more space while still providing a small barrier between him and everyone else. Her coccyx bumps into the tip of Akwasi's left sneaker.

"We didn't fall," she repeats, a soothing murmur. Two. Three. "You didn't fall. But Rog  _did,_ Lucifer. He's falling right now, and you're the only one who can help him." She sucks in a breath. Two. Three. "Please, please, snap out of it."

"Satan  _skydives_?" says Akwasi.

A deep, low, upset moan catches in Lucifer's throat. He pulls an arm over his head.

"It's okay; it's okay," Chloe assures him, feeling useless. Two. Three.

"Satan is skydiving from  _this_  plane?" Akwasi says, mystified.

"Yes, he's skydiving from this fucking plane!" snaps Chloe, turning on him. "Now, back the fuck off, will you? Give him some goddamned space!"

"Literally God damned, huh."

She glares so hard her stomach hurts, and funny colors fill her vision.

Akwasi holds up his hands, wide-eyed. "Whoa," he says,  _finally_  backing away. "Peace, lady."

She turns back to Lucifer with a grimace, eyeballing the long, jutting arc of his right wingbone. "Lucifer, I'm sorry to hurry you, but—  _whoa_."

She helps him catch his balance as he lurches to his feet. Feathers rustle. Wings thump and thud and slap into things. His gelid fingers grip her shoulders like a vise as he teeter-totters beside her. He glances over her shoulder. At the still-open flight door. His gaze shifts down to Sean, who's lying on the floor, but awake, now, and looking around at things. Things like the swaying archangel attached to the giant sparkly wings.

"Please, Lucifer," she repeats, turning back to him, afraid to move. "Rog is falling." Two. Three.

His wings contract behind him, pulling close to his body like a shield. The white peaks rise behind his shoulder blades, hitching in time with his rasping inhalations. He blinks sluggishly, eyes glassy, his expression as disoriented as Sean's. Like he's having trouble staying in the plane cabin with them. Like past trauma's wrapping a noose around his neck, getting ready to pull out the floor beneath him and yank him into another Technicolor flashback. She tries not to wince as he leans his massive weight against her and stares blankly, trembling, at his feet. Reminding himself of the ground, maybe.

"Lucifer, please. Rog didn't have his chute. He'll die when he lands." If he hasn't died already. She's not sure how long it's been since he jumped. Time is stretching and bending like light through a prism. Two. Three. She stands rod straight, forcing herself not to reach out and give Lucifer a good shake. " _Lucifer_."

Another sluggish blink. He takes a breath. "Mr. Simmons …."

"Fell," she says, nodding. "He  _fell_ , Lucifer. He fell  _alone_. Right  _now_."

Lucifer rubs his face, squinting.

"Lucifer,  _please_. Snap out of it."

"I fell."

Her heart breaks. "I know. But not today."

He looks at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since this started. His gaze is a wound, open and hurting and bloody. She wants to wrap her arms around him and never let go, but she can't.

"You're okay," she whispers. "I promise. But Rog isn't."

Lucifer swallows like he's steeling himself.

And then he's gone in a rustle of feathers.

A dazed Ms. Wroth rests on the floor by Sean, helping him sit up. He groans, but seems okay from a distance, at least. Akwasi, meanwhile, has taken up the space Lucifer vacated.

With a deepening frown that wrinkles his whole forehead, Akwasi looks at Chloe.

Chloe peers back at him, too wrecked at this point to bother with explanations.

But one colossal shrug and a baffled nose-and-lip contortion later, Akwasi decides, "So, this was a pretty existential day, huh?"

* * *

When the plane lands, Rog is sitting by the side of the airstrip with his arms wrapped around his knees. Wide-eyed, windblown, rocking back and forth, he babbles nonsense under his breath, but he seems physically fine. Lucifer, though, is gone.

She texts him. Calls him. Both his personal cell, and the phone behind the bar at Lux. Both to no avail. She prays him a simple,  _Thinking of you. Thank you for catching Rog._

By then, the explanations have started.

"This's some concussion," Sean marvels. "Thought I saw a dude with wings."

And Ms. Wroth adds, "How unfortunate that his parachute deployed while he was still on the plane!"

Only Akwasi seems unaffected. "I wonder if Satan likes weed."

"Boy, does he ever," Chloe mutters.

"Seems logical," Akwasi muses onward with a contemplative look. He turns to Chloe. "I mean, he offered to get me some. And it's called the Devil's lettuce, right?" His eyes widen. "Dude, if I'd taken him up on his offer, would I owe him my  _soul_?"

"Of course, not!"

Akwasi nods. "That's good. I like weed, but not that much." He squints, thinking. The moments stretch. "I wonder what his  _favorite_ weed is."

She shrugs as the flashing lights of an ambulance appear beside the runway, followed by two squad cars. "You should ask him," she calls over her shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be happy to tell you." And then she jogs over to meet the E.M.T.s.

* * *

"Holy  _shirtballs_!" Ella exclaims over the bustle, bursting out of her lab like she was lying in wait for Chloe's arrival. "I heard your chat with dispatch over the police scanner. Are you  _okay_?"

Chloe smiles hollowly as Ed Myers gives her a dirty look from across the room. "Yeah."

"Where's Lucifer?"

"I don't know."

"Is  _he_  okay?"

"I … don't know. I hope so."

"What the heck  _happened_?"

"Well, I—"

"Bumpy ride?" Acting-Lieutenant McDowell interjects in a tone that makes it hard to decide whether he's joking or serious. Arms folded, he stands at attention like they're in the military or something.

She sets her purse onto her desk, resisting the urge to give him a sarcastic salute. "Um. Yes, sir. But I'm pretty sure we got the guy. And gal."

McDowell nods, considering for a moment.

"I was headed to interrogation," she says. "Rachel Sykes and Roger Simmons."

He nods again, adding, "Stay on it," without inflection before turning to go.

"Man," Ella murmurs conspiratorially at Chloe as he disappears back into his office, "that guy is the toughest nut to crack I've ever met."

* * *

Roger Simmons and Rachel Sykes are apologetic wrecks, and Chloe feels more like she's the sitting priest at a confessional than a detective taking statements. Rog, because he felt too guilty to dispose of them, kept Thomas Widow's laptop and cellular phone tucked away in a storage locker at Top Flight. With just a cursory triage, Ella isn't able to locate anything exculpatory like a suicide note, but that still leaves a lot of potential evidence to pick through for answers. The analysis might take weeks or more, depending how much data there is.

Rubbing her tired eyes, Chloe checks her phone again.

The flurry of texts she sent to Lucifer remain unread, but she has one message from Dan, sent at 5:42 p.m.

 _Glad ur safe,_ he said.

Her stomach twists. Dan was supposed to drop Trixie off at Chloe's house at 5:30. She glances at her phone's clock. It's 6:43. Between paperwork, and interviews, and laptop retrievals, the whole day melted away. She stayed late without even meaning to. Fuck.

 _Sorry to make you wait! Coming home now,_ she texts him, rushing to gather up her things.

 _???_  Dan replies.  _I didnt have 2 wait._

She frowns.  _T's at your place?_

_? No shes at urs._

_I thought Maze was in San Diego._

_? L took her._

Chloe's mouth tumbles open, and she almost runs into the staff-parking-lot door.  _L as in Lucifer?_

_Ya._

_Voluntarily??????_

A long pause follows before he texts back,  _Ya?_

She's speechless, at this point, instead directing her energy toward barreling down the last aisle of cars. Lucifer didn't respond to any of her various pings via text or phone, but somehow ended up at her place, willingly looking after Trixie. Today of all days?

 _Not ok?_ comes the next text from Dan as she's crawling into the seat behind her steering wheel.

_No, no, it's totally fine. Thanks!_

Though her confusion is only deepening. She tries calling Lucifer again. Nothing. Again. She calls Trixie, but the call goes straight to voicemail. But then she remembers Trixie's phone is waiting for a new battery to come in the mail. Which ….

Shit.

Throwing her phone onto the passenger seat, Chloe peels out of her space, almost rear-ending Ed in the process. He lays on the horn for much longer than necessary. She grimaces, blushing as she gives him an apologetic wave, and heads home.

* * *

"Hi, Mommy!" Trixie chirps as Chloe steps over the threshold.

"Hey, babe!" Chloe calls back before adding more warily, "Lucifer."

Trixie and Lucifer are sitting at the table with the Monopoly board sprawled at the center. Game pieces and fake money and cards are spread out in neat stacks. Neither the top hat nor the shoe are placed on the board. Instead, when Trixie grabs the dice and rolls a five, she reaches for the Scottish Terrier. The other piece on the board, sitting on the bars in the jail space, is the racecar. Lucifer, his windblown, frizzing hair the only sign of the day's airborne adventures, fiddles with his scant money pile, not acknowledging Chloe's arrival.

"Lucifer," Trixie says.

He doesn't seem to hear her at first.

"Lucifer," Trixie repeats, almost singing. "It's your turn!"

With a frown, he animates and reaches for the dice. Chloe slides into the chair next to his.

"Hey," she says as he tosses the dice.

Not doubles. His racecar stays in jail. Listless, he sighs and nudges the dice over to Trixie.

"I," he says softly, not looking at Chloe, "had to get out."

"That's okay. I figured it was something like that. I just wish you'd let me know where you went. I was worried. I sent you a bunch of texts."

"I would assume my phone is still in the locker room at Top Flight."

Oh. She realizes belatedly that the charcoal-colored suit he's donning, now, is different from the gray one he wore that morning.

"Do you wanna play, Mommy?" Trixie offers. "We can start over."

"No, that's okay, babe. I'll just watch."

"You can be the banker?"

"Okay," Chloe concedes. "I can do that."

She scoots closer to Lucifer. He rolls the dice again. No doubles.

"I've a feeling you'll not be watching this travesty for long," he grumbles, forking over $50 to her to sort into the money tray. His pile is down to nothing but a ten and some ones. "Really, this is nothing like reality."

She snickers. "For you, maybe." She leans close and kisses him, murmuring by his ear, "Are you okay?"

"I will be," he answers. "It's … all right that I'm …?"

"I'm  _glad_ you wanted to come here."

"Me, too!" adds Trixie.

"I … I merely desired …." He trails away. "I could …." He glances toward the kitchen, like he's thinking about offering to make dinner again, like  _quid pro quo_ is his lifeline in the face of any kind of generosity, however small. But he says nothing, swallowing back words like he's choking down boiled Brussels sprouts. He looks back and forth between Trixie and Chloe, gaze softening as he lingers on Chloe. With a glassy, wet blink, he looks away. And then with a sniff and an awkward throat clear, he stuffs most hints of his turmoil away behind a crumbling mask. "I … appreciate the hospitality."

"I'm glad," she repeats, not willing to press him.

"Are you gonna stay over tonight?" Trixie asks.

He frowns. "Well, I …."

"Please?" Trixie says, sinking into one long chant of, "Please _please_ please."

"I … yes?" He glances at Chloe like he's expecting her to veto the idea any moment, now. She doesn't. "Yes, I will." She keeps her face neutral, letting this decision be his. "I … desire it."

He pauses, his words lingering in the air, his posture tense and his expression troubled. He glances furtively at Chloe again.

"Lucifer," she says, enunciating every syllable, "I'm  _glad_."

His nod is infinitesimal, and the silence lingers for several heartbeats, until Trixie squirms in her seat. "Luciferrrr," she whines, "are you gonna go?"

He gives himself a little shake. "Yes. Yes, of course. I … apologies." He rolls the dice, landing on Chance. "Pay a bloody poor tax of $15?" he reads with a scoff before glancing at his money pile. "I  _am_ poor. What kind of Nottingham nonsense is this?"

Trixie giggles. "Gotcha!"

"Yes, well." He has no properties left to mortgage, so he forks over the remainder of his money pile to the bank. "Bankrupt. Same as the last time." He fixes his gaze on Chloe, lip twitching with the smallest of smiles. "I suppose in this case, I am indeed got. Shall we play again?"

"Will the cat get lonely?"

He glances at Trixie. "Pardon?"

"The cat! What if it gets lonely tonight?" Her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the table, Trixie turns to Chloe with another pleading look. "Mommy, can he fly home to get the cat?"

"Huh?" Chloe says, forehead wrinkling.

"I could keep her in my room for a while?"

Lucifer frowns again. "I'm certain Cerberus will survive my absence."

"Trixie," Chloe says, "what—"

"I would be lonely if I didn't have you guys or Daddy," Trixie insists. "Won't she be lonely?"

Lucifer snatches the dice off the board, sequestering them from all the scattered cards and fake money, before adding, almost a snarl, "I am not  _Daddy_  to a feline."

"But—"

"Babe, cats are fairly self-sufficient," Chloe assures Trixie. "She won't get lonely after one night."

Trixie's eyes are wide. "You're  _sure_?"

"Positive." Chloe nods, leaning close with a conspiratorial smile. "And  _this_  cat was fine even after a whole  _week_  by itself." She gives Trixie's shoulder a squeeze. "Plus, I promise, Daddy and I aren't going anywhere, yeah? You don't need to worry about that."

Trixie bites her lip, saying nothing, and Chloe's throat tightens. This issue has lingered since the kidnapping, years ago. Every time it shows signs of rectifying itself, something awful happens. Maybe, she and Dan need to think about getting Trixie into therapy, after all. They'll have to talk about that, soon.

"Can we play again, now?" Trixie says into the silence.

"Yeah, babe," Chloe says, nodding again. "Let's."

She turns to Lucifer as they gather up all the game pieces, resetting them. "How's that going, anyway? Finding someone to take the cat, I mean."

"No one is taking the bloody cat," he mumbles, not looking up from the game board.

"You can't find anyone?"

He sorts the fake bills into the banker's tray. "I … haven't asked anyone."

Her chest tightens. "Lucifer …."

"What?"

She shakes her head, unable to suppress her quivering smile, so she hides it behind her hand. "Nothing. Let's play."

* * *

After Trixie is in bed, Chloe tells Lucifer over a bottle of wine what happened with Rog and Rachel. "We need to be more careful when we're riling up suspects," Chloe decides. "Like … I don't have any problem utilizing your skill set, but we almost got a guy killed today because we were careless—" Not the first guy who's jumped off a ledge to get away from Lucifer, either, she belatedly realizes. "—and I just …." She takes a breath. "That's something we need to work on. Now that I know, I mean."

"As you desire," Lucifer says, tracing the rim of his glass with his index finger as he stares into space.

She sips her wine, letting the tannins soak her tongue. " _Thank you_  for saving him."

"Hmm."

"Either way, the whole thing is such a tragedy. I can't help but feel awful for everyone involved. There's no 'bad guy,' just a big pile of avoidable mistakes. And poor Thomas." She tiredly rubs her temples. "Whether he killed himself or this was just a stupid accident, what a total waste of life. It's just …."

"Such bright brief flashes of light," Lucifer murmurs, echoing his earlier assessment of humanity.

She sighs. "Sometimes even more so than others, unfortunately."

The silence stretches, letting in the sound of the crickets. A car swishes by on the street. The refrigerator hums.

She wants to ask him again. If he's okay. She wants to. But she holds her tongue, Linda's words about emotional space circling like sharks in her head. He came here for comfort. For  _basking_. Not interrogations. But ….

His eyes close, and he flinches. Like someone touched him on the shoulder. Or … the wing. Perhaps Rog. Perhaps a ghost. A soft, miserable sound of protest coils in Lucifer's throat.

"Lucifer?" she says.

He flinches again. With a sickened-sounding sigh and a grimace, he sets his still-full wine glass onto the coaster on the end table. "I … I need a shower," he says, pulling his fingers through his hair as he stands. "I'm … filthy."

He isn't. At all. Though maybe his sharper nose can smell something hers can't. "Sure," she says, at a loss for the sudden shift in his demeanor. "You know where the towels and stuff are."

Without a backward glance or word of acknowledgment, he takes the steps three at a time, and then he's gone. The water turns on minutes later, filling the quiet.

* * *

The water runs for twenty minutes. Thirty. She takes the dirty wine glasses to the kitchen sink, re-corks the bottle, and puts it in the fridge.

"Hey," she murmurs minutes later as she steps into the master bathroom. He doesn't greet her. The air is thick and hot and choked with steam. "I'm in here. Just brushing my teeth, and then I'll be out of your hair."

He says nothing.

Water smacks into the tub basin as he shifts under the spray, only the flesh-colored shadow of him visible through the almost-opaque shower curtain. She swipes some of the mirror clear with her palm. Drops of water stream down the glass at the edges of her handprint. As suspected, the wine made her tongue almost black, and her teeth are bluish. Wincing, she squirts some toothpaste onto her brush and starts to scrub.

"I've been pulling myself together  _myself_  since before humanity was a glimmer in Dad's vainglorious little eyes, you know," Lucifer says, a tad indignant, like he was privy to her thoughts earlier. Blush creeps across her face. She scrubs harder. "I don't know why I …."

She spits out her toothpaste. The drain gurgles. "Why you what?"

He laughs, though the sound is half-aborted and not exactly happy. "I  _like_  you in my hair, Detec— Chloe.  _Chloe_. I came here because …." He clears his throat. There's a thump, thump, thump, like he's gently punching the wall tile. "I'm not quite so fragile as you seem to think I am."

"I don't think you're fragile, Lucifer," she says. "I don't think you're fragile at all. Being strong and wanting comfort are  _not_ mutually exclusive."

"Aren't they?"

She turns toward the shower, folding her arms as she leans against the sink. "I think you're one of the strongest people I've met."

Another half-aborted, bitter laugh coils in his throat. "Really."

"Having scars doesn't make you fragile. Lucifer, it just means you have more of a story to tell than some people."

"I … don't have scars anymore."

She shrugs. "Maybe not physical ones."

The sweltering steam sticks to her skin, making her face feel damp. Her hair clings in curling tendrils to her neck. She waits and waits, hoping he'll say something else. But he doesn't. She turns to go.

It's not until her hand is wrapped around the doorknob that he murmurs, "Please, stay."

A lump forms in her throat. "Sure." She shifts across the bathmat, toward the toilet seat.

"No, I—" he says. Another thump, thump, thump. "I meant … will you join me?"

The hurting lump grows until she's having trouble swallowing. "Yeah, okay."

She shimmies out of her jeans and panties. Peels off her shirt and socks. Unclasps her bra. Leaves everything in a pile on the rug underneath the towel rack.

Nudging the shower curtain out of the way, she steps over the lip of the tub. The lights dim, blocked by the curtain. Ankle-deep water sloshes at her feet.  _Must be shedding too much hair_ , she thinks absently, adding Draino to her mental shopping list for the next time she hits the supermarket. And then the absurdity catches up with her. She's pondering shopping lists when she's naked in the shower with the De—

"Hello," he says, barely audible over the thunderous spray.

She smiles almost shyly. "Hi."

His hair is slicked to his scalp. Water drips down around his dark eyes. She slogs across the deep puddle, closing the space between them. They don't speak as he presses close, kissing the top of her head. Her temple. Her jawline. Her lips. His pruned palms slide up her torso from her belly as he pulls away. He pauses at her shoulder, his thumb brushing the deep, puckered pockmark left by Jimmy Barnes's bullet.

"The cuffs," Lucifer says. "They made me feel as though I'd been carved out. They cut me off from my divinity, and I couldn't …." He shakes his head.

"I remember."

He cups her face, gazing at her. "All I wanted was to watch my stars. All I  _wanted_  was to know  _why_ —" His lip curls into the beginnings of a scowl. "—and they hunted me down like foxes after a hare."

She reaches for his hand, pulling him to her lips to kiss the pruned lifelines marring his palm. "Lucifer, you don't have to tell me this. Any of this."

"I'm telling you because I desire you to know. My … my 'story,' as you say."

She nods. "Okay. I'm listening."

His mouth opens. Closes.

She reaches for the washcloth on the rack behind her. It's not wet, yet. He hasn't even touched it. She grabs the soap and the cloth and lathers up. He watches every movement, silent, tense.

"Turn around," she says.

"No. No, I …." He holds out his hand, beckoning for the cloth, and she passes it to him. "Thank you. I just …. I need …." Something to do. Something to focus on that doesn't involve looking her in the eye.

"It's okay," she assures him. "I get it."

With a determined expression, he presses the cloth to her shoulder, to the long-healed bullet wound. She sighs, stepping closer. He gently spins her around, pressing up against her back. The heat of him soaks into her as he rubs the cloth down her arms in slow, soothing motions.

"I hadn't slept in weeks when Raguel found me. He said he wanted to talk. To  _understand._ Because of his lies, I let him get too close, and he trapped me in the cuffs. Then Michael strung me up in the square by my wrists. Left me to be gawked at and blamed and judged. Held up as an example for all who would dare defy the Word."

A stress position. He'd been hung up in a stress position. He'd been tortured before he ever even got to Hell. By his own fucking family.

Her heart clenches.

He drags the washcloth downward, massaging her breasts. Her torso. Her belly. With a tight, shuddering breath that isn't crying — she refuses to cry because then he might stop talking to worry over her instead — she tips her head back against his torso. He strokes the hair at her temple, cradling her to him.

"No one in my family showed me an ounce of compassion or consideration," he says, the words a harsh, dejected rumble through his sternum. "Not one bitter ounce. And then, when I was too bloody exhausted to hold myself upright, Dad struck me loose. The chains snapped apart, and then I was falling." He pauses for a moment, and the rushing water fills the silence before he continues more quietly, "It was … hot. Like ... the sun itself raked the skin from my body. My vestments burned away. I was naked. A prisoner of gravity." Another pause. "Because of the cuffs, I couldn't use my wings. I couldn't catch myself. I couldn't do anything but fall. And so that's what I did. For hours. In the heat and the helplessness, rejected, reviled, abandoned."

He isn't moving anymore. The washcloth drops from his lax fingers. She catches it before it falls into the tub. For a long moment, he doesn't speak, but the picture he's painted is gruesome, bright, and burning, and it won't stop searing her mind's eye, over, and over, and over on loop. She turns around.

"Can I touch you?" she says in a small voice. A stupid question, really. They're already skin-to-skin, but ….

"If you like."

She wraps her arms low across his waist, constricting around him but avoiding his upper back. He looses a wet, troubled breath by her ear. She won't look up.

"Too much?" she says.

"No. You make it—" He swallows audibly. "—less."

She drags her fingers along his spine in a soothing motion, pausing over his sacrum before drifting upward again. Her fingertips slip on his wet skin.

"That was the last I saw of the Silver City," he continues. "A shrinking white speck eventually enveloped by the flames of my descent. And then I landed." He shudders in her grasp. "The air stank of brimstone. The ground was nothing but ash and char. The cuffs wouldn't unlock. Despite the heat, I was cold.  _Freezing_. I felt my entire being draining into the Void. I thought I would die. I  _wanted_ to die. I called for my sister to take me. Then  _he_  found me."

He. Asmodeus.

"Oh, Lucifer," she says softly. "I'm …." She doesn't know what to say. She's not sure there's anything  _to_ say.  _I mean, why did you fucking_ work  _with that monster?_  she remembers snapping at him. Accusing him. Back when the revelation of Asmodeus had been a fresh wound on her psyche, and she hadn't realized, yet, that Lucifer was dying. Had been dying back then when he landed, too. "I'm so sorry for what I said. In the woods. I'm—"

"I'd … rather not speak of the rest," Lucifer says in a low, sick tone, ignoring her.

"That's okay. You tell me what you want to tell me. No more, no less."

 _Do not_ touch  _me_ , he's said. Over and over. His shoulders. His back. His  _wings_. The implications — that someone, maybe Asmodeus, maybe someone else, did touch him, very much nonconsensually after he landed — roil her stomach.

She contents herself with listening to him breathe. Hearing the rush of the water falling down around them.

After a long stillness, he reclaims the washcloth and continues his self-appointed task of washing her, until he's massaged every sinew and fiber of her being. When he's finished, he drops the washcloth back onto the rack to dry. The shampoo bottle makes a squirting sound behind her. Cold liquid spreads across her scalp, and then he's pulling his fingers softly through her hair. She can't help but relax. The water is just beginning to run cold when he finishes, and then twists the shower knob to the off position. They must have used up the entire complex's water heater. But she doesn't have time to feel guilty as he pulls one of her big fluffy towels off the rack and wraps her up.

"In all this time, have you any idea of the worst part?" he says as he dries her off.

"Hmm?" she says, blinking out of her relaxed stupor. His first words in ages. "What?"

"The worst part."

She shakes her head.

"Millennia later, and I still haven't the faintest bloody clue why. Why me. Why anything. He built me with the ability to question. To feel dissatisfaction and doubt. To  _desire_. And then he punished me for it." The towel falls away from her face, revealing him looking back at her, imploring. Steam billows around their bodies, and his eyes seem almost black. Obsidian. "Chloe, I don't know  _why_."

She wishes she had answers for him.

She doesn't.

"Is your Fall … why you changed your name?" she hazards.

His eyebrows knit. "You know of my old name?"

She peers up at him, pushing fingers into his wet hair. Samael, she thinks as she takes in his sharp, chiseled features. Samael. But the name feels like an ill-fitting glove to her. She can't picture him as anyone other than Lucifer. "Asmodeus called you Samael several times. Ella said it means … blindness of God? Or something?"

"Ah." His gaze shifts to the foggy mirror, though he doesn't seem to be seeing the foggy world painted in the glass. "The suffix 'el' means 'of God,' yes. That's why Amenadiel, Azrael, Raguel, Michael, Uriel. All angels are of God. But it didn't feel right to proclaim to be of God, anymore. Not when he cast me away."

"What made you think of Lucifer?"

He shrugs. "It was my title."

"Huh?"

"The Lightbringer. Lucifer means light bringing, and I … didn't want to lose that." His lower lip quivers once before he forces it still. "Light was … mine. It  _is_ mine, when I've my wings."

He stares into space with a longing expression before grabbing her bathrobe off the rack. He helps her step into the soft terrycloth. She ties the belt against her navel.

"I couldn't watch them, you know," he says as they step into the bedroom. "My stars. I couldn't watch them when I was in Hell.

"Do you want to watch them, now?" she replies. "We could go outside on the patio?"

He shakes his head, staring at her with a warm intentness. "No, I'd rather …." But he doesn't say what he'd rather. Bask, maybe. He settles on his side of the bed, naked, beautiful. He props his head against his hand, watching her. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Being my light when the rest isn't enough."

Her eyes prick again, and her heart constricts. "Well, you're mine," she says through a blur of tears. "So, I mean, it's only fair."

He laughs. "Darling, I thought you were trying to get me  _away_  from banking on  _quid pro quo_."

"Yeeeaah, that's not  _quid pro quo_ ," she says, grinning at him. "That's just me saying I love you."

The words make him grimace. Like an open wound.

She sits beside him on the bed, putting a hand on his bare hip. "Please, tell me why hearing that bothers you so much."

"Because I  _like_  it." His words are soft. Desperate. His fingers clench. "Because ... it will go  _away_."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Perhaps not now," he says, an awful, sad smile marring his angelic face. "Not on purpose. But eventually you will. Humans die, Chloe. All of you will die. You're  _built_  to die. And I ..." He looks away.

"You don't know the future."

He looses a bitter laugh. "Darling, there's optimism, and then there's lunacy."

"No, I mean ... who knows?" she replies with a shrug. "Maybe, I'll go to Hell."

His expression flattens. "Don't even joke about that."

"I just meant—"

Abs rippling, he contorts into a sitting position and pushes himself off the bed. "If knowing me would  _ever_  make you desire Hell, then I'll—"

"Stop," she says, clutching his wrist. "You're right. I'm sorry."

He relaxes a little, sitting down again. "Hmm."

"And yeah. Someday, I'm gonna die, but, Lucifer ... part of life is loss, and if you preemptively try to protect yourself from all of it, you're gonna miss out on a whole lot of—"

"I know," he replies through clenched teeth. "I  _know_  that. That's why I'm here in your bed and not somewhere else. But ..."

"But if it were that easy to cure our anxieties, we wouldn't need people like Linda."

"Precisely."

She inches closer. He wraps his arms around her, the heat of him flooding through her robe. She presses her ear against his chest, listening, thinking. The question,  _how is this her life, now_? isn't something her brain is bothering to ask anymore. Only,  _how do they make this crazy thing work?_

"I wonder if Linda would do couples therapy," she muses.

He kisses her. "She does."

"How do you know that?"

"I've attended sessions with Maze, Amenadiel, and Candy."

"Huh. Maybe, we should do that. Maybe, she could help us."

"Well, I can't imagine treating the Devil's love life would be any more bizarre for her than anything else I've thrown at her. I—" He stops, peering at her with a perplexed expression. "Why are you smiling?"

She claps her palm to her mouth, covering up her straining grin, but she can't do anything to tamp her satisfaction. That's the second time he's sort of said it, now. Obliquely, but he has. "Nothing," she lies. "It's nothing."

He tilts his head. "That face is not  _nothing_."

She looks away. Her eyes prick. She takes a breath, trying to rein herself back in, because she doesn't want to put him on the spot. Maybe, he only hinted because he wasn't thinking.

"Darling, what—?" he begins, only to grind to a halt. Clarity slips into his expression like a tide coming in. "Ah."

He scoots across the sheet, gently gripping her shoulders. "May I?" he says, tugging at her collar.

She nods. He slips the terrycloth down her arms, past her elbows, undoing the belt and pulling the robe away from her body. He drops the robe to the floor beside the bed. Cool air laves her body. Her breasts. His dark eyes rove her from head to toe, and she resists the urge to cross her arms in front of her chest. She lets him look. She looks, too. At the gentle swell of his pectoral muscles. The flatness of his abs. The faint happy trail winding downward from his navel. His obvious arousal.

But he doesn't proposition her.

Inching close, silent, he yanks the coverlet up from underneath their ankles, cascading it over their bodies. He pulls her down onto the bed with him, his lips pressing against the nape of her neck as the blanket settles. He wraps an arm over her hip, spooning her, enveloping her with his warmth.

"Of course, I love you," he confirms.

The words are soft and simple and perfect, spoken with little inflection, and yet … somehow … more emotive than any declaration she's ever heard from him before.

Another smile tugs at her lips, gently first, and then her mirth burbles up like a pot boiling over, making her ache at the corners of her cheeks and deep in sinews of her heart.

"I'm glad you told me," she replies.

He nuzzles her neck. "I only speak truth."

Content, she reaches for the lamp, turning off the light with a click, and she rests her palm over his.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one! Enjoy :D

They step onto the penthouse balcony hand-in-hand. A carpet of purple-black sky and a faint, twinkling smattering of stars sprawl above them. The breeze creates ripples on the liquid surface of his hot tub. His potted ficuses bend and sway.

Over the weeks, they've settled together like displaced waves, gradually finding harmony. Lucifer's nightmares, still subsiding, have decreased to only a fitful night here and there. The bags under his eyes are long gone. Chloe's, too, and she feels ….

"So," he says before she can identify the warmth inside, "how would you prefer to do this?"

"Me?" She laughs, bewildered. What a question. "I … don't know?" she says. "I mean, how  _should_ we? You're the expert."

Now, it's his turn to laugh as he turns to her, cupping her face with his palm. "I'd hardly call myself an expert. As you've intimated with your previous — how did you characterize it — whiplash, extreme disorientation, and urge to vomit?"

"Right, so, this time, maybe … pretend we're  _not_  running from a demonic gunman bent on murdering us both and then butchering you for parts."

"We  _aren't_ running from a gunman bent on  _anything_ , murderous or otherwise."

"My point. So, just … slow it down by about … five-zillion miles an hour? My inferior human self can only handle so much."

His eyes widen, though he's sniggering. "Accusing me of going too  _fast_ , are you? That's … new."

She grins at him. "Only in the context of flight." Leaning in, she kisses him, relishing the feel of his lips against hers. "Also driving. Going from zero to pissed and every other emotion in between. Interrogating. Investigating in general—"

"Detective, I object!"

"—but definitely  _not_ for … well … you know."

"Hmm."

A lump forms in her throat. "I love it, though. All of it. All of  _you_."

"Really."

"Yes,  _really_." She presses her forehead to his. "We complement each other."

His thumb brushes her cheek, and he lingers, his forehead pressed to hers. "Yes, I suppose we do."

For a moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Only breathes.

"What is it?" she whispers.

But he shakes his head. "Only basking, darling." He takes a breath. "All right." Bending forward to slip one arm behind her shoulders and the other underneath her knees, he scoops her off her feet, into his arms, like she weighs a pittance. "Before I simply abscond into thin air with you … you're certain?"

"Of course, I am." She bends her legs, tightening her grip on his arms with the backs of her knees, and locks her fingers together on the opposite side of his neck, over his shoulder. She laughs. "I feel like Lois Lane or something."

"An apt metaphor."

His shoulders twitch backward, and the familiar rustle of feathers fills the quiet. She rests her head against his collarbone, a lump forming in her throat at the sight of his gleaming wing, which curves beyond his opposite shoulder, out of her sightline. The divine glow makes him seem ethereal in the dim starlight.

A soft whop, whop, whop sound breaks the quiet. Lucifer shifts, his wings shifting with him, giving Chloe a view beyond his bicep. Cerberus sits behind the sliding door, batting at it with her white-mittened front paws. Little pink toe pads press against the glass as she stares like she's sizing up a mouse at the closest shining feather.

"Not a bloody cat toy, you degenerate little mop," Lucifer grumbles.

Cerberus's ears twitch. "Mrow?" The glass muffles her chatter.

" _Later_ ," he insists.

"With the fishing-pole thing," Chloe adds, smirking. "When we get back."

His lip curls as his attention turns back to her, a dire, affronted expression. "Traitor."

"What?" She can't count the number of times she's walked in on them, Lucifer with a gleeful look on his face as he entices the cat to perform another flip. "It's cute watching you two."

" _Cute_? The Devil is not  _cute_."

She presses her tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to smother her laughter, which only results in awkward chuffing noises that make her nose hurt.

He sighs.

"Sorry," she blurts, still not-laughing laughing. "I'm sorry." Not.

"Shall we?" he says through gritted teeth, though he can't quite suppress the delight in his tone or the buoyancy tugging on his expression. "Before I regret offering to take you?"

"Sorry," she repeats with a quivering grin, before making a show of forcing herself to calm down. "Ready. I'm ready."

"At one, then," he says. "Three. Two." When he hits, "One," his wings lift and sweep down on a shelf of air. The leaves on all his ficuses whoosh upward, presenting their paler undersides to the night sky. And then, with a sudden lurching sensation that drags down on her gut, gravity leaves them behind, along with his balcony, the glow of his fireplace, and his befuddled cat.

Air floods against her exposed side and face as they rise, and rise, and rise into the darkness, until the highrise where he lives looks like a toy. A model for train set scenery. She whoops with glee, almost bouncing in his arms.

"Feels better this time?" he says, pride leaking into his tone.

"This is so fucking cool!"

"My, my, darling," he replies, grinning. "The  _mouth_  you have!"

"I'm  _flying_ , Lucifer," she says with a laugh, wiggling her toes. Cold, whistling wind buffets her ankles, where she forgot to cover up. Her hoodie and his body keep the rest of her warm like she's lying on a beach in summer, though. "With my best friend. The man I love. Under the sky he pretty much built. I think the experience deserves a few effusive modifiers. Don't you?"

"Effusive, eh?"

She shrugs. "Well, I mean … an effusive sailor, yeah?"

"I'd say cop more than sailor, perhaps."

"So, you  _have_  wandered through the locker rooms at work."

Though he doesn't reply, he snorts with amusement, his dark eyes glistening in the starlight as he treads the open air with his massive wings. She lets go of his neck, her trust absolute, to push her fingers through his windswept hair.

"Basking again?" she says softly.

"Yes." The word is thick and overwrought.

Nodding, she curls against him, happy to bask, too. His stars are brighter at this height — more shimmery — and the brilliant Los Angeles skyline sprawls below them like an infinite tangle of Christmas lights. The wind is a soft roar in her ears. He kisses the top of her head as they idle in space.

Until his grip tightens around her, and mirth tugs his lips into the beginnings of a smile. "Darling," he says, peering at her with a sudden, inspired gleam in his eyes, "would you like  _my_  version of a roller coaster?"

" _Yes_ ," she's quick to say.

"Slightly toned down, of course."

"Yes. Show me what you love about this. Show me  _everything_."

His grin is mischievous. "All right, then. Ready?"

"Set!"

His wings flap once. Twice. His grin stretches into something impish. "Going."

Despite his warning, she isn't prepared for the acceleration that lashes her body against his chest like she's a bullwhip. His wings are a lustrous white knife, slicing air. The lights below spiral wildly. And her delighted, cackling shriek trails behind them as the ride of her life begins.

_~finis~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thanks to everybody for coming along on this ride with me, and for all the support and kind words. Thank you also for the many delightful kudos and comments you've left me — I cherish all of them. If you've been saving up on feedback, this is officially your last chance for this story. Until next time :)
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